What Happens in Vegas
by cheride
Summary: There's an unexpected trip, suspicious mobsters, and a murder investigation, and all that's before the feds show up. But Hardcastle isn't explaining any of it, so McCormick is on his own.
1. Part I

**_What Happens in Vegas_**- _cheride_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_Rating: T_

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**Author's Notes:** Another piece that was originally published last year by Agent with Style. But, as usual, these things rarely get done alone, and this one is no exception. For always helpful and speedy beta-work, my thanks go to Susan Z; she helps keep my loose ends tied up. And, for beta-work and beyond, including constant encouragement and hand-holding when necessary, I say thanks to L.M. Lewis. I'm not sure this would've been finished without her.

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**Chapter 1**

"Hey, Hardcase," Mark McCormick called as he approached the patio table. "What's the occasion?"

Retired Superior Court Justice Milton C. Hardcastle glanced up at the grinning ex-convict. "What're you talkin' about, McCormick?"

"I'm talkin' about you, Judge," McCormick answered, seating himself and reaching to pour a glass of juice. "It's after eight; you usually have me up by six."

"And you usually bitch about it," Hardcastle pointed out. "So what's the problem?"

"No problem," McCormick said agreeably. "I'm just wondering."

"Well if you must know, kid, I thought maybe it was time for a little break." Hardcastle tossed a stack of travel pamphlets in front of McCormick.

The young man stared at the glossy pages, but didn't move to pick one up. "You're kidding."

"No, McCormick, I am not kidding," the judge replied with a huff. "I thought we'd take a vacation. You know, get away. A little R and R."

"No offense, Judge," McCormick smirked, "but vacations with you rarely include much R, and there's even _less_ R."

Without meaning to, Hardcastle laughed. Damned cocky kid; always did crack him up. But still . . . "Don't be a smart ass, kiddo, or we'll see if vacation can't include a little extra pruning and raking in sunny Southern California."

McCormick grabbed a brochure. "No," he said quickly. "I'm sure wherever you planned is . . . _Vegas_? Now I _know_ you're kidding."

"McCormick, I am _not_ kidding. Will you quit saying that? Besides, what's so surprising about Vegas? I thought it might be kinda fun."

"Judge, c'mon. Vegas is only a few hours drive from here, but you've never wanted to go before. The only times we've ever been there, we were working on a case and . . ." McCormick's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What're you dragging me into?"

"I'm not dragging you into anything. I just thought you might like it."

McCormick's voice took on a petulant tone. "You told me before I wasn't allowed to gamble in a casino while I was on parole, remember?"

Hardcastle waved the thought aside. "That was a long time ago, kid. I didn't know you so well then; thought you might be some trouble."

McCormick grinned suddenly. "Why, Judge! Was that a _compliment_?"

Hardcastle immediately began to object, "Don't be . . ." but then thought better of it. It couldn't hurt to be nice to the kid every once in a while. "Maybe," he admitted.

The grin threatened to crack McCormick's face as it spread across to his ears. Sometimes Hardcastle surprised the hell out of him. Apparently this was gonna be one of those days.

"So you really want to go to Vegas?"

Hardcastle nodded. "I really do."

McCormick nodded in return. "Okay. When do we leave?"

"This evening. I figure we'll do most of our driving after the sun sets; it won't be so hot."

The young man just shook his head in amusement. This evening. Yep, it was definitely gonna be one of those days. He quickly downed his glass of juice and rose from the table. "Then I guess I better get busy. I have to pack, and call the pool service, and maybe the lawn guy- - how long are we gonna be gone, anyway?"

"I don't know; a few days or longer. We'll play it by ear. But don't worry about making those phone calls; I'll take care of that. You just get your stuff together, and give the pool a good dose of chemicals after you clean it. Then I thought you might want to run to the market for some of that junk food crap you like to have on car trips."

McCormick laughed as he headed for the gatehouse. "Watch out there, Hardcase, or I might not share my Ho-Hos."

Hardcastle watched until McCormick was safely inside, then pulled the deck side phone closer. He dialed slowly, then waited. Finally, he spoke a single sentence into the receiver. "Okay, it's done; we'll be leaving tonight."

00000 

Milton Hardcastle had tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Next to him, McCormick was wearing his normal goofy grin. No one made the judge laugh like this kid.

"You're in an awfully good mood today, Judge," the young man said, as he steered the car along the highway.

"You complaining?" Hardcastle demanded.

"Nope, not a bit. You just don't usually find such humor in my tales of police ineptitude, is all."

"Guess you caught me in a weak moment."

"Hah! I haven't seen you have a weak moment in the last two years, Hardcase. I don't figure it's likely you're gonna start now."

Hardcastle just shook his head with a grin, but didn't answer. His attention drifted to the passing desert. "It's really peaceful out here at night," he commented in a now strangely subdued tone.

McCormick glanced over at his passenger. He had started this day appreciating Hardcastle's rather unusual demeanor, but now he was beginning to get worried. The judge had been almost giddy with good humor and seemed to be bending over backward to be nice, which was strange enough in itself. But there had also been moments when his eyes would become filled with an almost wistful quality and then he would make some comment like how peaceful the desert was at night. And all of that was on top of the completely sudden and unexpected trip to Vegas. Honestly, it was all just a little strange.

But McCormick had asked in almost every way imaginable what was going on, only to have his inquiries brushed aside each time. The one thing he hadn't tried was simply an honest and direct question. Often that approach didn't work well with Hardcastle, but he'd run out of ideas. And, with less than an hour before they pulled into Vegas, this seemed the perfect time to go for broke.

"Milt?" The choice of address worked as expected; Hardcastle turned immediately to face the younger man.

"What is it, kiddo?"

McCormick looked over briefly. "Is everything okay?"

Hardcastle was immediately touched by the genuine concern in the simple question. Sometimes it was too easy to get caught up in life and take friendship for granted. Still, he couldn't say that now. Apparently the kid already thought he was somehow off base. He smiled.

"Everything's fine, McCormick. I'm just looking forward to a few days away, ya know?"

McCormick wasn't entirely convinced, but he returned the smile. "Yeah, Judge, I know. Me too. Maybe I'll even get a chance to beat you in a real poker game."

"You keep dreaming, kid," Hardcastle laughed.

They completed the desert crossing with a boisterous debate over the merits of holding an ace kicker and the difficulty of filling an inside straight, and McCormick allowed himself to be convinced that everything really was just fine.

**Chapter 2**

McCormick stood in the shower, letting the water cascade over his still form. His mind was filled with questions, all of them centered on Milton Hardcastle. In the two years he had spent paroled in the judge's custody, he had seen a lot of aspects of the man's character. And while they hadn't all been good, they had all added up to a fairly predictable pattern of behavior. But right now, that pattern simply wasn't holding.

Tuesday, when Hardcastle had suggested the trip to Vegas, McCormick had mostly taken it in stride. Even when he had been directed down the strip and in to the drive at Caesar's Palace—a more lavish hotel choice than normal—he had let it slide with only a quip or two. And, when they were settled into their room, and Hardcastle had replied he was too tired to join the other man on a visit to the casino, but had handed over a hundred dollar bill from his wallet, McCormick had hidden his surprise and gratefully taken the money.

And Wednesday, when the older man had declared right after breakfast that he had some personal business to attend to, handed Mark another three hundred dollars, then made plans to meet for dinner, the young man had been too stunned to make even a single smart-assed remark. Then at dinner, his honestly curious and bewildered questions had been brushed aside in typical Hardcastle fashion.

But this morning, when he had awakened to find a note saying Hardcastle was again planning a solitary day, with three crisp one hundred dollar bills next to the page, McCormick had decided enough was enough. Something was wrong. And when something was wrong with Milton Hardcastle, Mark McCormick did not intend to be left on the sidelines.

So, dressed for the day, he grabbed a quick breakfast in the hotel diner and began a systematic search for his wayward travel companion. But after almost two hours, he was mostly certain that the judge was not in their own hotel, and that left him exactly nowhere in terms of where to go next. The keys to the Coyote were still safely in his pocket, so wherever Hardcastle had gotten off to, he had done it on foot.

_Or in a cab,_ he thought. _Or on a bus. Great._

Approaching the front lobby door, he pulled out his wallet and searched through the items until he found what he needed. He pulled out the D.C. newspaper clipping, and folded it so that only the picture was showing, then stepped close to one of the doormen.

"Cab, sir?" the uniformed man inquired politely.

"No, thanks, just maybe some information." He held up the photo. "Have you seen this guy? He's a guest here."

The doorman looked at him suspiciously. "What's it to you?"

"He's a friend of mine," McCormick explained. "We came here together, but now we've gotten separated. I'm just a little worried about him."

Mark watched the expression in the other's eyes change from suspicious to all-knowing. "Oh, I see." And his tone implied that he was seeing far more than there actually was to see.

McCormick almost laughed at the insinuation, but instead took a quick second to evaluate the young man standing before him. Pegging him instantly as a sucker for lost causes and happy endings, he decided not to correct the assumption. He glanced at the nametag on the jacket and leaned a little closer.

"The thing is, Andrew—can I call you Andrew? Anyway, I think he might be kinda mad. I got a little tipsy last night; spent too much, flirted too much, and then said some things I probably shouldn't have said. You know what I mean? But then he stormed off outta here without his keys, or his wallet, or anything."

He smiled sadly. "He likes to think he's all gruff and tough, but he's just a guy from a small town in Arkansas, and he really shouldn't be alone in a place like this. Can you help me out?"

Andrew looked at him closely, and—as so many before him—was swayed by the McCormick charm. "He mentioned two different casinos, both here on the strip: the Riviera and Barbary Coast."

"Did he say why he was interested in those two?"

"No. Just asked if I'd ever had any luck at either of them, and if I recommended their restaurants, then headed out."

One last question. "Barbary Coast is just across the street, right? How about the Riviera? Is it far?"

Andrew gave a half shrug. "Maybe three quarters of a mile or so." He gave McCormick a considering and appreciative look. "A guy in your shape, not too bad a walk, but in this heat, I told your friend he should take a cab."

McCormick couldn't resist. "Oh, trust me, Andrew; he's kept himself in pretty good shape, too." He grinned and slipped a twenty into the young man's hand. "Thank you for your help." And, whistling a jaunty tune, he set off down the long drive, and wondered just what the hell Hardcastle was up to.

00000

He kept the picture handy for his tour of the Barbary Coast. Walking through the casino, he thought it looked like a place Hardcastle would like, with its deep colors and stately old west feel. But though he criss-crossed the casino in a very orderly fashion designed to ensure that every nook and cranny would come into his view at least once, and though he spoke with staff at both of the bars, he found no one who remembered seeing the judge.

Finally, he made a final stop at the concierge desk and showed his picture one last time. This time, a distraught nephew looking for an ailing uncle.

"Ah, yes," the gentleman replied, "Mr. Hardcastle was here earlier. He seemed fine, sir. He made a dinner reservation for Michael's late seating this evening."

"And just when is the late seating?" McCormick asked.

"Nine o'clock."

"Okay," Mark replied with a shake of his head. "That may interfere with his medication schedule just a little bit, but I guess if that's what Uncle wants…" He slid a twenty across the desk and thanked the man for his time, then headed out into the Las Vegas sunshine.

He made the trek down the strip, ignoring the beckoning call of air conditioned casinos and the flyers that were pressed into his hand with lovely ladies promising any number of pleasures. His only thought was to figure out exactly what it was that Hardcastle didn't want him to know.

Another casino, another grid pattern. He honestly didn't anticipate finding Hardcastle sitting at a slot machine, but, then again, he hadn't really anticipated having to search for the man in the first place.

He had passed by the poker room and was coming around another bank of machines when he heard the familiar laugh. He stopped, quickly surveyed the area, and decided Hardcastle was in the lounge. He took a step backwards, circling the slots from the other direction, trying to get closer without being seen.

_Why are you spying on him?_

_Because he's sneaking around,_ he answered himself. _Jeez_.

Just because he didn't tell you exactly what he was doing doesn't mean he's sneaking around. He doesn't have to, ya know.

But he always does. And when he doesn't, it's trouble.

There wasn't really an argument to that, so he situated himself at a slot machine where he could watch the lounge from behind Hardcastle.

The judge was sharing a table with another man, maybe early fifties, angular face, nicely coiffed sandy brown hair, good teeth, nice suit. _Rich_, Mark immediately decided.

He watched more closely and saw the way the man never relaxed; his eyes were always sweeping the area, he sat very straight, looking ready to move from his chair in an instant, all while he carried on a seemingly pleasant conversation with Hardcastle. _Rich crook,_ he amended.

And then, in a table just beyond where Hardcastle was sitting, a large man, alone, in navy suit, complete with tie even though it was early afternoon in a hotel lounge and it was about a hundred and fifty degrees outside. Even sitting in a bar with a drink in his hand—_just for looks_, McCormick decided—the man gave a new meaning to the word alert. And while McCormick was certain there was nothing in the entire radius of vision that the man had missed in his constant surveying, it was clear that the judge's companion was his primary focus. He made one final adjustment to his label.

_Rich mob crook._

So what the hell was Hardcastle doing having a drink with a mobster in Las Vegas? He watched as a waitress approached the table with another round, her face bright with a wide smile. She made conversation with the gentlemen, and leaned a little more than was completely necessary when placing the drinks and removing the empty glasses. But she seemed to be lingering longer than usual, continuing with her friendly chatter. Then again, there was nothing particularly unusual about a waitress flirting with the rich customers. He grinned as he watched her turn to Hardcastle directly, giving him full benefit of her smile, then lean down to whisper something close to his ear. Then he heard the laughter again, and watched the judge whisper something back.

_He's flirting with her!_

And for a moment, McCormick was so amused with that idea that he almost forgot that the jurist had given him the slip only to come hang out with a mobster.

But a few minutes later, the waitress had returned to the bar and the mobster was standing to leave. McCormick looked around hastily, trying to find the best way to keep out of sight should Hardcastle and his friend come toward him, but then he realized the judge wasn't rising. The mobster was on his feet and offering his hand in farewell, and the thug in the suit had moved in surreptitiously to stand behind his boss, but then they were leaving the bar and heading out across the casino floor, and Hardcastle was left sitting alone in the lounge.

_What? He's gonna sit alone in a Vegas bar and drink at three o'clock in the afternoon?_ But apparently, that's exactly what he was going to do, as McCormick watched the judge motion for a refill, then flirt a bit more when the waitress brought the drink to the table. Then, moments after that, Hardcastle carried his drink over to the bar, traded a bill for roll of quarters, and began playing the video poker machine, making idle conversation with both the waitress and the bartender.

McCormick just shook his head. _What the hell?_ Deciding instinctively that confronting Hardcastle right now would be a mistake, McCormick hit the change light on his machine, got his own quarters, and began feeding the slot.

He was gambling unenthusiastically, most of his attention focused on the other side of the machine and the solitary man who sat hunched over the bar. He was so focused on Hardcastle that he almost didn't register the dark-haired man who had come into the bar and was now talking rather animatedly to the waitress. In fact, he probably wouldn't have noticed, except that it seemed Hardcastle was beginning to notice. The older man had lifted his head from the game in front of him and was casting a wary eye on the exchange that was taking place at the far end of the bar, aiming for a bit of privacy.

Mark stopped pulling the handle and simply watched the bar. The waitress seemed to be getting more agitated with the man, though she waved off the bartender when he wandered toward them casually. But Hardcastle was beginning to look more interested and less pleased with whatever was going on. McCormick began shoving coins into his pockets, still watching. But when he saw the guy grab the waitress' arm, he rose quickly, rounded the machines, and climbed up the two steps into the bar.

As he stepped into the darkened lounge, he could hear the fear in the woman's voice.

"Jarrod, I've told you; we're not getting back together. You can't keep following me like this. Go back home to Albuquerque, _please_." With apparent effort, she lowered her voice to hiss at him, "You're going to get me fired. Please leave."

"I'll follow you forever, Marie, you know that. No place is home without you." He jerked her closer. "And I've told you not to be working in places like this."

McCormick moved further into the room as Hardcastle rose from his seat at the bar and approached the couple.

"I think the lady asked you to leave," the judge said mildly, though McCormick recognized the danger lurking in the tone.

"Just who the hell are you?" Jarrod demanded, glaring at the older man.

"Just a guy who understands when a lady says no," Hardcastle answered in the same easy tone, but his eyes were hard.

McCormick took another step closer. Hardcastle hadn't noticed him yet, and he didn't want to add to the tension unnecessarily, but he didn't intend to be far away if things went bad.

"Milt, it's okay," Marie said in a frightened tone. "I can handle this."

"Milt?" Jarrod repeated. "You actually _know_ this guy?" And McCormick completely related to the feeling of surprise.

"You need to take your hand off her," Hardcastle stated, ignoring both their comments. When there wasn't an immediate response, he took a half step forward. "I'm not gonna ask again."

With fire in his eyes, Jarrod released Marie with a backward shove that sent her right into Hardcastle, who held her for a moment to get her steadied.

"You just want to get your own hands on her, huh?" he sneered at Hardcastle. "You think a sweet little young thing like her might keep you from getting too old? Is that it?"

Hardcastle didn't immediately reply, but turned, placing Marie behind him. McCormick froze, now on the receiving end of the glare as the judge registered his presence. The young man got the message: _Stay out of this._

Hardcastle turned back to face Jarrod. "I think you need to leave now. And you shouldn't come back."

But Jarrod didn't seem inclined to take the advice. He stepped deliberately toward Hardcastle, face flushed. "I don't think you can move in on another man's wife," he shouted, "and still try to defend her honor." He moved closer. "Has the little whore been good for you?"

He punctuated his final words with a wild swing toward Hardcastle's face, but his rage made him unsteady. The judge easily deflected the blow, grabbed the fist and twisted the man around to shove him roughly against the bar.

"That was stupid," Hardcastle said harshly, holding Jarrod tightly as the younger man struggled against the grip. He glanced at the bartender. "Do you suppose we might get security?" he asked.

"They're on their way," the man answered.

Jarrod was still raving. "Marie! You bitch! You can't do this to me."

Hardcastle slapped the man's head. "Shut up!"

McCormick forced himself to stay out of the fray until Marie took a step back toward the bar. He closed the distance between them quickly and gently grabbed her arm.

"Don't," he said quietly. "You can't help right now."

She looked up at him, uncertainty on her face.

"I'm a friend of Milt's," he explained. She nodded slightly and stayed where she was.

Meanwhile, Jarrod was continuing his rant, though it had deteriorated into mostly unintelligible babble.

When security arrived, Hardcastle handed Jarrod over unceremoniously.

"Do we need the police?" the guard asked.

Hardcastle looked the question behind him at Marie.

She hesitated, but then shook her head. "No, just please don't let him come back."

The judge turned back to face Jarrod sternly. "She's doing you a favor. You'd be better off going back to Albuquerque."

"This isn't over," Jarrod spat out. "She's still my wife, and what I do with her is nobody's business."

Hardcastle reached out suddenly and grabbed the other man's shirt front, jerking him forward. "You listen to me, Jarrod," he growled. "You come near her again, and I'll make it my business. The lady doesn't want to see you, so you better make sure the lady _doesn't_ see you. Got it?" He released him roughly. "Get him out of here."

Jarrod was led away, and McCormick removed his hand from Marie's arm to allow her to run to Hardcastle.

He watched the judge fold her into a long hug, calming her, speaking soft reassurances, and he wondered just who this woman was. Then he looked around and noticed that a crowd had gathered, but was now slowly beginning to disperse as the excitement seemed to be over. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. But as he watched Hardcastle speak softly to the bartender, then guide Marie gently out of the bar without a word of explanation, McCormick realized he was back to his original question.

_What the hell is going on?_

00000

Hours later, Hardcastle returned to their hotel room to find the kid sitting rigidly, staring out the window, watching as the sky slowly darkened and the neon lights began to replace the sun. The judge threw the key onto the dresser then planted himself in the middle of the room, glaring at McCormick.

"You want to tell me what the hell you thought you were doing?"

"That's what I was gonna ask you," McCormick returned.

Hardcastle shook his head, dismissing the comment. "Since when do you think you have the right to go buttin' in to things that don't concern you?"

"Since the day you waved a file folder in my face and said 'you're gonna be my fast gun'," Mark shot back. "How the hell am I supposed to watch your back if you go sneaking off like that? You could've gotten yourself into a real jam."

The honest concern layered beneath the irritation diffused Hardcastle's anger, and he sighed slightly. "Well, I didn't," he answered more calmly. "Everything was under control."

"So you wanna tell me what's goin' on then?"

Hardcastle looked at the young man for a moment, then shook his head again. "Nothin' you need to be concerned with." He turned abruptly toward the closet. "I've got plans for dinner tonight, kid; just gotta change and then I'll be gone. You don't need to wait up." He grabbed his suit and disappeared into the bathroom without another word.

When he emerged several minutes later, the room was empty. "_Dammit_."

After just a moment's hesitation, he strode out the door.

**Chapter 3**

Breakfast the next morning was strained. Hardcastle had been waiting up fuming when McCormick returned to the room at about four am. But neither had wanted to talk, so they had simply fallen into beds for a few hours sleep. When they had awakened, Hardcastle had suggested a late breakfast, and his tone didn't allow argument, so they sat in the restaurant, staring down at food they weren't eating because it was easier than looking at each other.

"I want to know what you were doing, McCormick," Hardcastle finally said gruffly.

"Then we're even," McCormick replied without looking up.

"_I_ wasn't doing anything illegal."

"And neither was I," Mark said sullenly. "You've been throwing money at me all week just to keep me out of your way. You had plans, so I went out."

After another moment, Hardcastle said, "It's nothin' against you, kid; I've just got some personal stuff going on."

Thinking that sounded like as much of an apology as he was going to get, McCormick relented slightly. "If you met someone, Judge, you coulda just told me."

Hardcastle cocked an eyebrow. "You think this is about a woman?"

McCormick shrugged. "Seemed like you and Marie were getting along pretty well."

"I'm at least twice her age!" Hardcastle protested.

The astonished tone finally got a smile from the younger man. "So what? You're both adults. Besides, you know what they say, Judge; what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas."

The judge just shook his head ruefully. "She's a nice lady, McCormick. She's having some issues, which you saw part of yesterday. I've just been someone she could talk to."

"Then why- -" McCormick broke off when he saw Hardcastle's face close up. Apparently questions were not going to be allowed. He thought for a moment, then asked the one thing he had been coming back to all week.

"Judge, are you okay?"

Hardcastle smiled slightly. "I'm fine, kiddo."

And again, McCormick forced himself to believe.

00000

"Milton Hardcastle?"

Both men looked up at the sudden voice. Standing at their table was a middle-aged man in an off-the-rack suit, a studied calmness on his face, and a world-weary expression in his dark eyes.

_Cop_, McCormick decided immediately.

"Yes," Hardcastle answered. "What can I do for you, Officer?"

McCormick grinned a little bit at the surprised expression on the cop's face.

"Have we met?" the officer asked in mild confusion. "Or were you maybe expecting an officer?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "No. How can I help you?"

"I'm Detective Colbert," the officer said as he produced his badge, probably out of habit. "I wanted to talk to you a little bit about Jarrod Lear."

McCormick looked sharply over at the judge. "Is that…?"

Hardcastle nodded once, then looked back at Colbert. "What about him?"

"He was murdered last night."

Both men stared at the officer, eyes wide with disbelief.

"I understand you had some sort of altercation with Lear yesterday, Mr. Hardcastle; is that correct?"

"Yes," Hardcastle admitted.

"He was just keeping him from hurting a lady," McCormick interjected. "And he turned him over to the security guys."

Hardcastle silenced the younger man with a look. "I was just in the right place at the right time, Detective, to maybe prevent an assault. It was nothing more than that."

"Witnesses say you threatened him."

"Oh, _please_," McCormick began, but Hardcastle glared at him again.

"Ah, well, I might've strongly suggested that he leave the girl alone."

Colbert nodded slowly. "Would you be willing to come to the station to give us a full statement?"

"Are you crazy?" McCormick exclaimed.

"McCormick! Will you please stay out of this?"

"Judge . . ." But the look he received was almost lethal, so McCormick let whatever complaint he had go unspoken.

"Of course I can give you a statement, Detective Colbert. Shall I meet you at your station later today?"

"Why don't you let me drive you?" Colbert suggested. "I'll be glad to bring you back when we're done."

Mark was about to open his mouth again, but Hardcastle held up a hand to stop any comments. "That's fine, Detective. But could you give me a few minutes to talk to my associate first?"

Colbert narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but then nodded. "Of course. I'll be waiting right over at the entrance."

The officer was barely out of earshot before McCormick exploded. "What the hell are you doing, Judge? They wanna question you about a _murder_, and you're just going along like it's the most normal thing in the world."

"There's nothin' wrong with cooperating with the police, McCormick. I didn't kill the guy, so it isn't going to hurt to answer a few questions. I don't know what you're gettin' so worked up about."

McCormick shook his head. "Unbelievable. Why didn't you just tell him about your dinner reservations over at that fancy restaurant across the street?"

Hardcastle's eyes hardened. "How'd you know about that?"

"I was worried about you, Judge," Mark replied in exasperation, "I was trying to find out what the hell you were up to. Besides, that'll give both you and Marie an alibi; I'm sure you're the two top candidates on their suspect list. I mean, she is the one you had dinner with, right?"

The judge hesitated, pulling a hand across his chin. "Well, we didn't make it to dinner."

McCormick couldn't stop the immediate grin. "Why, Judge, you old dog, you."

"Will you stop that, McCormick? I told you, it's not like that. Anyway, she was really scared after what happened yesterday. Said Jarrod's been following her for almost a year, no matter where she goes. She said it was time to move on again, so I put her on a bus to Reno at about seven-thirty."

"Well that takes care of _her_ alibi; what about you? What did you do then?"

"Did you just want to ride downtown with us and maybe conduct the interrogation?" Hardcastle asked pointedly.

But McCormick had a pointed question of his own. "Is that what it's going to take to get a straight answer out of you?" He glared his frustration across the table. "Why are deliberately keeping me out of this?"

"Because there's nothing to worry about and it doesn't concern you." He rose from the table. "Now, I don't know how long I'll be, but it shouldn't be too long. Did you need any more money?"

McCormick slapped the table loudly as he pushed himself up out of his chair. "No, Judge," he retorted angrily, "I don't need any more money. I'm not sure when I became someone you could just buy off, but I'm telling you now that I don't like it. But you just go ahead and take care of whatever it is that doesn't concern me, and I'll just wait here like a good stooge until you're done, okay?" He tossed a final farewell over his shoulder as he walked away from the table. "Good luck with handling it on your own; hope it works out well for you."

He stormed out of the restaurant without waiting for a response, slowing just long enough as he passed Colbert to mutter, "He's all yours."

00000

McCormick was trying desperately not to hit the wall in the elevator, as he was pretty sure the other passengers wouldn't approve. He was just glad he only had eight floors to get through; much higher, and he thought the passengers might've gotten quite a show. He was off the elevator before the doors were even fully opened, and striding down the hall at a brisk pace. He opened up the room, stuck the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and closed the door loudly behind him.

"Dammit all to hell!"

But after that one outburst, McCormick stood silent in the room, his anger slowly evaporating only to be replaced by a growing sense of unease. Something was wrong, and it was becoming more wrong by the minute. He thought for a long moment, then moved over to the telephone and dialed a very familiar number. The line was answered on the first ring.

"Harper."

"I need your help, Frank," McCormick blurted.

"Mark? What's wrong?"

The young man's words came in a rush. "I don't even know, but something's going on with the judge. He's acting really weird, being all secretive and meeting with people I don't know, and now some guy's been killed and they've taken Hardcastle downtown for questioning. He won't tell me anything about what he's doing, but I know he's gotten himself mixed up in something, and it's gonna be trouble. I don't know why he brought me out here, he won't tell me anything about what's going on, he disappears every day; if I'm supposed to help him, he- -"

"Mark!" Harper finally interrupted. "You gotta slow down. I don't have any idea what you're talking about. Where are you? Are you still in Vegas?"

McCormick forced himself to take a breath. "Sorry. Let me try again. Yes, we're still in Vegas. And, as usual, Hardcastle's gotten himself in the middle of something, but I don't know what the hell it is."

"You said something about a murder," Harper prompted.

"Yeah. Some guy named Jarrod, um . . . Jarrod Lear. Some cop came and dragged Hardcastle downtown just a little while ago."

"They _arrested_ him?"

"No, no," McCormick assured the detective, "just asked him to answer some questions. But they were pretty keen on the idea of gettin' it done. I think he's probably pretty high on their list."

"Well what've they got on him?" Harper demanded.

"I dunno. I was hoping you could tell me. I know Hardcastle isn't going to give me any details when he gets back, and I'd rather not be operating completely in the dark. Could you make a few calls?"

"Well, yeah, I can do that, I guess. See what I can find out."

McCormick heard the hesitation in the lieutenant's voice. "Frank? What's the problem?"

"I don't know, Mark. Why don't you tell me what's really going on with you and Milt? What do you mean he isn't telling you what he's doing?"

"I don't know," McCormick replied in exasperation. "He's just been acting all weird, starting with the whole trip to begin with. I mean, since when does he just wake up one day and want to take a vacation? _Especially_ to Vegas. And then, after he drags me out here, he can't be bothered to give me the time of day, just goes gallivanting off, taking care of his 'personal business'. He won't answer any questions, and then, this morning, he acts like it's all business as usual when some detective wants him to come answer questions about a murder. What do _you_ think is going on?"

"I'm not sure," Harper admitted, "but Milt does usually know what he's doing. Maybe you should hang back until he's ready to clue you in."

"_Frank . . ._"

"And besides," Harper continued, "people out there don't know you. You can't be messing around in a police investigation. Let them do whatever they need to do, and trust Milt to tell you what you need to know."

McCormick tried again. "Frank- -" but the detective wasn't listening.

"Mark," he interrupted sternly, "you need to let this be. You don't have any protection out there, you know, and Milt would never forgive you if you got yourself locked up trying to watch after him."

"So you're not gonna help me?" Surprise and disappointment battled with frustration in Mark's tone.

Harper sighed loudly. "I'll make a couple of calls," he conceded, "and make sure everything seems okay. If I'm convinced, will you be convinced, even without details?"

Mark thought for a moment before answering. Finally he said, "Yeah, Frank, I'll be convinced. I don't know what's going on out here, but _I_ still trust you guys." He didn't wait for an answer before hanging up the phone.

00000

If Mark McCormick had spent a longer afternoon outside of prison walls, he wasn't sure when it had been. He was still worried about Hardcastle, and the conversation with Frank Harper had left him with more questions than answers.

He looked at his watch again. He had forced himself to wait in the room, knowing it was the only place he could be sure of meeting up with Hardcastle, but the judge had been gone over four hours, and the patience he had struggled to find was rapidly fading.

He was pacing the room for about the fiftieth time when he finally heard the key in the door.

"So what happened?" he demanded before Hardcastle was even fully inside.

"Do you think I could take a minute to catch my breath?" Hardcastle shot back angrily.

McCormick bit back a retort. He waited until Hardcastle had crossed the room and collapsed into a chair, then he sat himself on the edge of the bed and looked intently at the judge. He didn't ask again.

After a moment, Hardcastle began to speak. "Things might be a little worse than I thought, kiddo."

Forcing himself not to say 'I told you so', McCormick asked, "What does that mean, exactly? They really think you killed this guy?"

"They're not ready to say it outright just yet, but, yeah, I think so. It would probably help if I had an alibi."

"Tell 'em you were with me," McCormick blurted. He received a scowl that said Hardcastle didn't think that was such a good idea, but he didn't back down.

"I'm serious, Judge; what would be the problem? It's not like you actually killed him and are trying to cover it up. You don't have anything to hide, you just need something to get them off your back. I'll tell them anything you want."

"What you'll tell them," Hardcastle said firmly, "is the truth. First of all, the system can only work if it gets the right information. And secondly, it might've slipped your mind, kiddo, but providing false or misleading information to a police investigation is a crime. That makes it a bad idea for me, but totally stupid for you. You wanna have to tell your new cellmate that's what you got sent up for?"

McCormick grinned fractionally. "Don't worry; I'd make up something more exciting." But Hardcastle didn't grin back, and the young man got the point. "Okay. If they ask, nothing but the truth."

"Good." Hardcastle seemed relieved. "So whatta ya say we have a little truth of our own, too? I let it slide this morning, but I'm still waiting to hear where you were all night."

"Hey, Kemosabe, I'm not the one the police came after this morning."

Still no answering grin from the judge, and Mark sighed softly. "I wasn't doing anything, Hardcase. I was downstairs in the bar for a little while, then I just went out driving. I drove all over town. Maybe around eight-thirty or so I found this local diner, and I stopped to eat. Then I drove some more, way out of town, out into the desert. I found this one road, kinda out in the middle of nowhere, that went up a hill. From the top, you could see the whole city laid out, but just the lights, ya know? No cars, or people, or buildings, or anything. Just lights in the dark, quiet night. I just sat there for a really long time, thinking." He paused, then added, "That was it, Judge. Not even a hint of criminal activity, Scout's honor."

McCormick rested his gaze squarely on the other man's eyes.

"And what about you, Judge? Do I get to hear the truth, too?"

Hardcastle rubbed at his eyes. "Sounds like our evenings weren't all that different," he began. "After Marie got on the bus, I caught a cab back to the strip. I had dinner at the Peppermill, then I just walked up and down the strip for quite a while. I had some things on my mind, too. I was back here about twelve, waiting for a certain wayward ex-con."

Ignoring the dig, McCormick answered, "Then you've got _something_ of an alibi, Judge. The cab driver and the restaurant can back you up, and there's no way you set foot in this hotel without being picked up on at least half a dozen security cameras."

Hardcastle nodded. "Yeah, the cops are checking all that, just to make sure I'm not lying to them, but they've got time of death between nine-thirty and eleven-thirty, just about precisely the time I can't really prove where I was."

"And there's no one who can back up your story? You didn't maybe meet anyone last night?"

The judge's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Well you haven't said anything yet about the guy in the bar. Since you seem to have so many friends here in town, I thought maybe you were with one of them."

"Don't worry about the guy in the bar," Hardcastle said, his tone suddenly cold.

"Judge, if there's something- -"

"It doesn't concern you, McCormick."

"Dammit, Hardcastle, quit sayin' that! Just when _do_ I get to be concerned, huh? When they drag you away in handcuffs for this murder? When they convict you and throw your ass in jail? At what point should I start being concerned? Tell me what the hell is going on!"

Hardcastle stared at the younger man, who was exerting every last bit of control not to lunge across the small opening and literally shake sense into the judge.

"Have I ever kept anything really important from you?"

McCormick's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're joking, right?" He waved his hand through the air, dismissing what he clearly thought was a ludicrous question.

"Now, listen," he went on, "usually I try to go along with your goofy 'need to know' policy, but this is different. Judge, something is obviously wrong; let me help you."

With a small smile, Hardcastle answered, "You're worrying about nothing, kid, but I'll tell you what: if it gets to the point where I _do_ need help, you'll be the first one to know, okay?"

"I _already_ know," McCormick said stubbornly, "I'm just waitin' on you to admit it."

When a full minute went by without a response, McCormick let out a heavy breath and moved to stare out the window. "Okay, then," he said after a few more seconds, "what else did the cops have to say? Surely they've got more than one little argument with a complete stranger to go on? Even without an alibi, that's not exactly a smoking gun."

"I don't know exactly what they've got," Hardcastle admitted. "I don't know these people like the folks back home. I'm not a colleague, I'm a suspect. They aren't saying a lot. They implied they're waiting on some findings from physical evidence. And they're gonna have someone in Reno take a statement from Marie. Other than that, all they really said was 'don't leave town'."

"Unbelievable," McCormick muttered under his breath. He shook his head. "And you already told 'em you were alone last night, huh?"

"Yes," Hardcastle said sternly, "because that's the truth. And if you try tellin' them anything different now, it's just gonna look bad for both of us."

"Yeah, yeah; I got it." He returned to his spot on the edge of the bed.

"So where do you want to start?" Mark asked.

Hardcastle appeared genuinely baffled. "Start what?"

"Jeez. The investigation, Judge; what else?"

"We didn't come here to do any investigating, McCormick."

McCormick turned a punishing glare on Hardcastle. "We didn't come here to get you arrested, either," he retorted angrily, "but here we are, one police detective's whim away from you with a number stenciled on your chest."

Had he not been staring so intently at the other man, McCormick might have missed the brief flicker of emotion that ran across Hardcastle's face. Even so, it was quick enough that he couldn't identify it. But seeing it was enough to confirm his suspicions.

"Dammit, Judge, what are you keeping from me?"

Hardcastle stared back silently for several seconds, but the young blue eyes were relentless.

"Do you trust me, McCormick?"

"Uh-huh," McCormick objected immediately, "don't be pulling that crap. You can't weasel out of it that easy. I asked you a question, and I have a right to know the truth."

"You certainly do," the judge agreed evenly, "but I asked you a question, too. And you should consider carefully, because if you trust me, you'll let me handle things the way I see fit without a lot of questions."

"I trust you to be the most stubborn donkey walking the earth," McCormick fumed. "And I trust you to get yourself into a lot of trouble if you don't have me around." He waited expectantly, but Hardcastle wasn't budging.

Finally, McCormick gave a huge sigh and pushed himself to his feet. "Okay, you win. Because the truth is, Judge, I trust you with my life. I thought that was a mutual thing, but clearly that was my mistake." He had almost reached the door before Hardcastle managed any type of response.

"Where the hell are ya going _now_?"

"I don't know," McCormick answered coldly, "but I won't do anything to cause you any trouble." He paused in the open doorway and flashed a grim smile.

"Trust me." And then the door slammed behind him.

00000

Staring at the closed door, Hardcastle spent a couple of agonizing moments wondering whether he should go after McCormick. But—hotheaded sarcasm notwithstanding—he did trust the young man implicitly. And besides, this way he wouldn't have to explain to the kid why he had made solo lunch plans again.

He let enough time pass for McCormick to huff off to wherever he was going, then, letting out a heavy breath, Hardcastle rose from his chair and left the room.

00000

Twenty minutes after storming out of the room, McCormick was sitting quietly in the valet stand outside the hotel lobby. He was watching discreetly as Andrew smoothly sidled up to Hardcastle and made a bit of conversation before motioning the next cab forward.

After the taxi was safely out of sight, McCormick crossed over to the doorman.

"Four Queens sports book," Andrew said as Mark approached. "He's meeting someone."

He thanked McCormick for the bill that was pressed into his hand, then added, "I really hope you guys work this out."

"Me, too," McCormick replied sincerely.

00000

It was harder to be discreet this time, as there wasn't a convenient row of slot machines to hide behind. But Hardcastle and his rich mobster friend were over at the far end of the sports book, and McCormick discovered he had a fairly protected view of the area from the opposite side of a small keno lounge.

But except for the fact that the judge was hanging out with a mobster, there didn't really seem to be anything unusual going on. The men were having sandwiches and beer, watching the baseball games on the big screen TVs. Occasionally, one or the other would step up to the window to place a bet. And, judging by the body language, they weren't discussing anything more important than on-base percentages.

He sat in the keno area long enough that McCormick ultimately felt obligated to place a bet in order not to stand out too badly, but he paid no attention to the numbers called. But after almost two hours of watching, McCormick thought he might go crazy if he had to hear those keno balls rattle around one more time, and he was ready to risk detection if it meant he could at least get close enough to watch one of those ball games himself. He craned his neck slightly to cast one last wary glance toward Hardcastle, then rose, stretched, and moved nonchalantly toward the sports book.

He was three steps closer to the judge when someone grabbed his arm tightly and pulled him close in a supposedly jovial fashion, shouted, "Hey, buddy!" in a loud, friendly tone, and pressed what could only be a gun against his ribcage.

"Um, hi, pal," McCormick replied uncertainly as he twisted just enough to see who his new friend might be.

_Really should've thought about him,_ he thought, as he recognized the mobster's suited guard.

"This isn't what you think," he said quickly, planting his feet to avoid being led away to some dark corner he feared he might not come back from. "I'm not interested in your boss, just his friend."

"Still bad news for you, friend," the suit responded as he jerked McCormick along, still somehow managing to make it look like a friendly scene. "Mr. Delancie prides himself on personally guaranteeing his friends' safety in his presence."

"And that's quite a service to offer," McCormick said magnanimously, "but I'm not a threat. Hardcastle is a friend of mine, and if you drag me in that direction, he'll tell you so himself."

When the guy didn't seem inclined to change direction, he added, "Look, you're the one with the gun, and I haven't even screamed for security, which probably wouldn't be the best thing for your boss, either. Let's just go ask him. If I'm not on the up and up, you have my permission to beat me to a pulp."

The guy stared for a second, looking as if that possibility held great attraction, then dragged McCormick toward the others.

"Mr. Delancie?" the bodyguard spoke as they got within earshot.

Both men looked up at the voice, and Hardcastle's eyes widened in shock, which quickly moved to fear as he took in the firm grip the guy had on McCormick.

"I'm tellin' you now, Hardcase," McCormick started immediately, "if you claim not to know me, this guy will be seriously unhappy with me."

"No, he's okay," Hardcastle assured his friend hastily, "he's with me."

"Dave." Delancie made the vaguest gesture as he spoke, and McCormick was released.

Hardcastle was already rising from his chair. "Sorry about this, Patrick. Just give me a minute to take care of it." He jerked a thumb away from the others, and McCormick followed the movement silently, not liking the ice-cold expression that had accompanied the directive.

"What the hell are you doing?" Hardcastle demanded as soon as they had reached the relative privacy of an empty section of chairs.

"That's what I keep asking you," McCormick replied, though his guilt over being caught spying diminished some of the fire in his tone. "Why are you hanging out with some guy who travels with his own goon squad?"

Hardcastle rubbed a hand across his forehead. "McCormick," he began in a barely controlled tone, "I do not want to have to say this again. This is personal, and I want you to stay out of it. Go back to the room, or go to the casino, or hang out at the pool. I don't care what you do, but let me handle this. Is that clear?"

"Judge- -"

"That wasn't a request, McCormick," Hardcastle interrupted coldly, "and it isn't open for discussion."

Startled, the young man unconsciously took a half step backward. He felt his breath catch as if Hardcastle had physically struck him. It took a moment, but when he finally answered, he had managed to will the anger and hurt from his voice.

"Okay, I got it this time. I'm out."

Then he turned abruptly and walked away. He didn't look back to see Hardcastle's hesitation as he first moved to follow his friend, then stopped and slowly returned to sit beside Delancie.

00000

McCormick pulled up in front of the courthouse and shut off the engine. For a moment, he simply sat, trying to weigh the severity of Hardcastle's retribution for even asking, against the minimal likelihood that he was going to get any help anyway.

But he didn't really have all that many options. Frank Harper had unexpectedly stonewalled him pretty thoroughly, and Hardcastle sure as hell wasn't being very forthcoming. And anyone he might've normally turned to in Vegas was unlikely to be much help in this particular situation.

"Ah, hell," he muttered, then pulled himself from the car and started toward the building.

He tried to appear confident for the security guard.

"I'm here to see Judge Henderson. Mark McCormick."

The guard glanced at the clipboard in front of him. "Do you have an appointment?"

A quick consideration, and he opted for the truth. "No. But I think he'd like to see me. Could you just let him know that I'm Milton Hardcastle's associate?"

"The docket is pretty tight, sir. Doesn't leave a lot of time for meetings, and without an appointment- -"

"I know," McCormick interrupted. "He's very busy. And if he can't see me, I'll understand, but could you please check? It's important."

The guard hesitated a second longer, then picked up the phone. He dialed an extension, then waited a moment before speaking into the phone.

"Marilyn? It's Walt. Hey, can you check the judge's calendar for me? Got a guy down here named, ah…" He looked back for clarification.

"Mark McCormick, Milton Hardcastle's assistant."

Walt relayed the information, listened for a moment, then said, "Okay; I'll wait." He looked back at McCormick.

"She says he can't do it today, but she's checking for the next available opening."

McCormick tried to hide his disappointment. "Oh, okay. Thanks."

After a minute, Walt was speaking again. "What? Yeah? Okay, I'll let him know." He hung up the phone and looked back at McCormick.

"He must really want to talk to you. You just caught him on his way back in, but he's going to delay fifteen minutes. He'll see you in chambers. Three-twelve; turn left off the elevator." Walt pointed in the proper direction.

McCormick thanked him and hurried down the hall, not certain if he should be grateful Henderson agreed to see him, or worried that the man thought it necessary.

Henderson was waiting, already in robes, in a small anteroom of his chambers. His assistant was looking suitably perplexed as to who her boss would suddenly drop everything to see.

"Mr. McCormick," he greeted as soon as the door opened, "please come in." He ushered the younger man back to his private office and closed the door behind them, leaving Marilyn wondering.

"Thanks for seeing me, Judge Henderson. I wasn't sure you'd remember me."

Henderson smiled and pointed at a chair as he slipped into his own. "Well, if Milton Hardcastle asks me to finagle some reduced charges for someone, I remember. That's not the kind of thing that happens all that often."

Taken aback, McCormick returned the smile. "Ah, no, I guess not," he said slowly. "And thank you, by the way." He had always assumed his association with Hardcastle was the reason for the fairly lenient fines he'd faced last time he was in Vegas; it had never occurred to him the judge might've actually _asked_.

But before he could figure out how to explain the help he needed this time, the judge was speaking again.

"So what's wrong with Milt? Is he in some kind of trouble?"

McCormick was startled by the unexpected question. "I was sort of hoping you could tell me." He was getting a bad feeling about all this.

"Hasn't anyone been around asking questions?" Henderson asked in a suddenly anxious tone.

"You mean the cops? As crazy as it is, I think that might all be pretty routine. They just- -"

"No," the jurist interrupted, "not the cops. The feds."

"The _feds_?" Mark was feeling a little slow on the uptake. "What feds?"

"I thought you might be able to tell me what's going on," Henderson replied, his tone equal parts disappointment and concern.

McCormick collected his thoughts. "Let's start again. I came here because Hardcastle's been acting really strange this week, starting with the idea of coming here at all. He's been sneaking off meeting people without me, and he won't tell me what he's doing. That's all I know, but it's strange enough to worry me. Now, what about the feds?"

Henderson shook his head. "They were just nosing around, talking to anyone who knew Milt. They didn't say much, but they were obviously investigating him."

"Investigating him for what?" McCormick demanded.

"I don't have any idea. Until they showed up, I didn't even know he was in town. Then after they were gone, someone mentioned the murder, but I don't think the F.B.I. would be involved in that."

"Not likely," McCormick agreed.

There was a moment of silence, and then Henderson looked McCormick directly in the eye.

"Are you sure you don't know anything at all about what's going on?"

McCormick contemplated that for several seconds, and then decided he couldn't really blame the guy. In a contest of Choose the Guilty Party when he and Hardcastle were the only players, even _he'd_ pick himself every time. He kept his gaze steady.

"No, Your Honor; whatever it is, I don't know anything about it. I do know one thing, though. I know I wouldn't ever do anything to get him into trouble. Ever."

Henderson still didn't look entirely convinced.

"I'm the one he pulled strings for, remember?" Mark prompted.

"He's been wrong before."

"Yeah. But I came to you."

The judge sighed slightly. "Yes, I suppose you did. So how can I help you?"

McCormick shrugged, keeping the relief hidden. "Find out what you can about the feds. And, if there's a cop you can trust, I'd like to look at some mug books. Hardcastle's been meeting with some mobster type; maybe if I can figure out who, I can figure out why."

Henderson's eyebrows had risen to his hairline. "What do you mean, meeting with a mobster?"

"I've followed him twice now," McCormick explained, "and both times, he's been with this same guy." He shrugged again. "He's working on something, I just don't know what. And I sure as hell don't know what it has to do with the F.B.I."

"Is there anyone back home you can ask?"

"Ah, not really. I called up one of our friends—LAPD—but he didn't say much."

"What _did_ he say?" Henderson asked, his tone a little insistent.

McCormick wondered briefly if all judges could read him so well.

"Well . . ." He hesitated briefly, then admitted the truth. "He basically told me to stay out of it."

"And yet here you are."

"He's not used to working without backup. My job is to be around to pull his butt outta the fire." He shook his head dolefully. "But sometimes he plays with matches."

Henderson smiled, a little grimly. "I think I could see that." He reached for the phone on his desk. "I'll set you up with someone. His name's Jeff Rowlen; he'll put you in a room and not ask any questions." He spoke briefly into the phone to make the arrangements, then replaced it on the cradle and rose from his chair.

"I don't mean to rush you, but I've got to get to court."

"No problem, Judge; I appreciate your help. I'll let you know what I figure out."

And then Henderson was ushering him back through the outer office and into the hallway. He smiled benignly. "So the station's only about three blocks east of here. I assume you remember the way."

McCormick grinned at the typical judicial humor. "Trust me, Judge; getting _into_ a police station has never been my problem."

00000

Walking slowly down the hallway toward the room, McCormick was wondering exactly what was in store for him. He had seriously considered another long night of driving the highways and byways of the greater Las Vegas area, but then he had remembered the anger in Hardcastle's eyes earlier this afternoon and decided this might not be the time to push the man. Besides, now he had names to go with faces of the mobster and his hired hand, but not much else, so maybe he'd get a chance to get more information from Hardcastle.

_Yeah,_ he thought scornfully, _because he's been so open and honest about everything so far. What the hell ever._

He breathed out heavily, then stuck the key in the lock.

Hardcastle was at the table, a burger and fries in front of him. He spoke without looking up. "I wasn't sure you were coming back."

McCormick shrugged. "I wasn't sure you'd care." He didn't intend to open himself up for any more grief from Hardcastle.

With a gesture toward the plate, the judge continued, "You were gone too long to wait dinner."

"Well, I figured you'd have plans anyway."

Hardcastle sighed and finally turned to face the younger man. "So do you wanna just have this out now?"

But McCormick shook his head. "Not unless it's gonna include you telling me what the hell is going on."

Long seconds passed without an answer, so McCormick continued. "I know you're working on something, Judge; I just haven't figured out what yet. You know you're gonna need my help eventually, so why not just spill it now?"

Hardcastle smiled slightly. "I already said I'd let you know if I needed help."

McCormick tried to capitalize on the unexpectedly mild attitude. "Can you at least tell me why it's not yet?"

That seemed to stop Hardcastle for a moment. "I told you," he answered slowly, "it's- -"

"Personal," McCormick interrupted. "I know what you said. But, Judge, it's _always_ personal. What's different this time?"

The judge hesitated, then spoke quietly, "I'm not even entirely sure. I just have a feeling that I need to handle this myself."

With a sigh, McCormick finally moved from the spot in the middle of the room and dropped into the second chair at the table. "You don't need to protect me, Hardcastle, whatever it is. But . . . I'll stay out of it, if that's really what you want."

"That's really what I want," Hardcastle confirmed.

McCormick nodded slowly. "Okay." He wasn't happy about it, but if Hardcastle was going to insist on working alone, he certainly didn't want the judge distracted with worrying about him.

Trying to force himself into something resembling okay, he grinned and snaked a hand across the table to grab one of Hardcastle's fries. He made a face as he swallowed. "Mm. Soggy _and_ cold."

Hardcastle shrugged in return. "Room service," he replied, as if that explained everything. "Plus . . . I've been sittin' here for a while."

McCormick didn't speak, just waited.

"It really isn't about trust, kiddo."

McCormick felt himself relax slightly, and offered a gentle smile. "I know that, Judge. Just be careful, okay?"

"I always am, McCormick. Now whatta ya say we go get a hot pizza or something?"

McCormick just laughed as they headed out the door, and forced down the lingering uneasiness.

**Chapter 4**

McCormick had awakened to an empty room again, and he resisted the impulse to try tracking down the judge. He had at least had forewarning this time, as Hardcastle had told him over pizza that he had plans for the morning. He still didn't like it, but he was trying to follow the judge's wishes.

But after dressing for the day, he decided there couldn't be much harm in placing one more call to Lieutenant Harper to see if he could at least get a little more information on the guy Hardcastle seemed to be spending so much time with lately.

"Hey, Frank," he said when the line was answered, "it's me."

"Mark, what's up?"

"Did you find out anything about what the guys out here are doing?"

"Not really," Harper replied, "they aren't saying a whole lot. Don't seem to think it's really all that much of my concern."

"Maybe you can give me some other information, then. What can you tell me about a guy named Patrick Delancie? Or his thug, David Rocco?"

"I don't know a lot about him," Harper replied—too quickly, McCormick thought. "Organized crime, second generation. Why?"

"Why's Hardcastle mixed up with him?" McCormick countered.

"Didn't know he was. Mixed up how?"

McCormick sighed. "You're a lousy liar, Frank. Just remember I'm around if whatever it is gets out of control."

After hanging up rather abruptly in Harper's ear, he placed a brief call to Henderson's office, just to let him know he'd found out the who, but still not the why. He also said that he'd gotten a tacit admission that it was some kind of case, but he still had no idea how the federal investigators figured into it, and would the judge please call if he had any more information. Then he left the contact information and said good-bye. Of course, Henderson himself was in court, but he was sure Marilyn would relay the message word for word. He had the impression she still had a lot of questions.

_Welcome to my world._

He'd finished his phone calls and been sitting silently for several minutes—working hard to remind himself that following the judge right now would be a fairly bad idea—when the knock came on the door.

He opened the door expecting a member of the housekeeping staff, so the two men in suits standing in the hallway surprised him.

"Oh, good," he said sardonically, "the feds are here." He looked them up and down quickly: one tall, one short; one blond, one brunet; one smiling, one scowling. Perfect set up for good cop/bad cop, he thought.

"Mark McCormick?" the tall blond smiling one inquired.

"Don't insult me by pretending not to know," McCormick complained. "If you're looking for me, then you know you've found me. Whatta ya want?" He thought briefly that Hardcastle wouldn't approve of the attitude with the law enforcement agents, and would undoubtedly tell him to tone it down a notch or two if he was here, but since he wasn't here, McCormick also thought the donkey had given up some of his rights to tell him what to do.

"We'd like to talk to you about Milton Hardcastle," the agent replied, seeming undisturbed by McCormick's comments, though his partner's scowl had deepened a little. He was displaying his badge. "I'm Agent Sloane, F.B.I.; this is my partner, Agent Matterly. May we come in?"

McCormick backed up and opened the door wider, allowing the men to enter. He motioned them toward the two chairs at the small table, then pulled out the chair from the desk and swung it around to face them. "What about Hardcastle?" he asked as he seated himself.

Sloane's smile spread a bit. "Right down to business, eh, Mr. McCormick? Fair enough.

"First, let me say that—as you no doubt suspected—we are fairly familiar with your personal case file. Your arrangement with Judge Hardcastle is certainly unusual."

McCormick shrugged. "I don't know," he said noncommittally. "Hardcastle says there's precedents all over the place."

"Really?"

McCormick shrugged again. "But what's it to you?"

"We're interested in the nature of your work for the judge," Sloane answered.

"Oh, that. Well, you know, he lives on a big estate. Lots of mowing, hedge-trimming, weeding. Then there's the pool, and maintaining the cars. Oh, and the cooking and- -"

"We meant the _other_ work," Matterly spoke up for the first time. And McCormick could tell from his voice that he probably enjoyed playing bad cop.

Mark narrowed his eyes. "What about it?"

"What's your part in the vigilante scam?"

McCormick held his tongue, but he couldn't stop the glare. He knew already he didn't like this Matterly guy, and he didn't care how much of it was an act. When he thought his response wouldn't get him taken away in handcuffs, he allowed himself to speak.

"Hardcastle is _not_ a vigilante and nothing that he does is a scam. As for me, I do whatever he needs. Help him with his research, ride along for backup when he goes to ask his questions, whatever. But again, what's it to you?"

Matterly began to snap back, "We'll ask the ques- -" but Sloane interrupted.

"Mr. McCormick," the agent said smoothly, "we just need to gather some basic information about what goes on during your investigations. For instance, can you tell me how your cases are chosen?"

McCormick turned his attention back to the good cop. "I think 'chosen' might be too strong a word in most cases. They just sort of seem to drop in our lap. Friends need help, or we're just in the wrong place at the wrong time, things like that."

"What about his famous files?"

"What about them?"

"Mr. McCormick, why are you evading our questions?" Sloane truly sounded more curious than angry.

"Because you haven't told me why you're asking," McCormick replied simply.

"Isn't it sufficient that we're federal agents?" Matterly snapped.

"Oh, that's rarely sufficient, Agent Matterly."

Sloane stepped in again. "To tell you the truth, Mr. McCormick, we've recently had reason to believe that Judge Hardcastle may have been less than above-board during his time on the bench, and we have some concerns that improper behavior may be continuing even now."

McCormick stared mutely; his only thought, _What the hell has Hardcastle gotten into now?_

Finally, he managed a perfectly reasonable question. "What kind of improper behavior?"

"We think that he may have been taking pay-offs while on the bench, dismissing charges in exchange for financial consideration. Now, it seems like he's decided to start going after some of those same cases to finally have them put away. We'd like to know why."

"This is some kind of joke, right?" McCormick was still staring at the federal officers. "Hardcastle put you up to this, didn't he?"

"It's no joke, Mr. McCormick," Agent Sloane assured him soberly.

"What in God's name would make you think something like _that_?" Mark was doing his best to keep himself under control. Really, this was probably his best opportunity to gain some understanding of whatever was going on. But he'd never been all that tolerant of blatant stupidity.

"We got a couple of complaints, beginning several weeks ago. To tell you the truth, we didn't take it too seriously until we started looking into it. Then we thought there were some things that might need a little more explaining. Even your own arrangement with the judge seems just a bit unorthodox."

"I suppose," McCormick admitted slowly. "That doesn't make it 'improper'."

"Were you asked for anything in exchange for Hardcastle's judicial stay?"

"You mean money?" McCormick asked, amused. "Pay him instead of letting him send me off to jail again? Hardly. If you guys really did your homework, then you'd know that _he_ pays _me_."

"And there was no other kind of quid pro quo agreement?"

This line of questioning was rapidly losing its humorous edge. McCormick spoke slowly through his gritted teeth.

"Let me spell this out for you. I was looking at a third felony conviction. And, yeah, there were some extenuating circumstances, but the truth was that most of the charges were valid. Judge Hardcastle offered me a way out of a tight corner, and the only string attached was that I had to promise him an honest day's work for an honest day's pay." This probably wasn't the time to mention the slave wage aspect of the arrangement.

"So far, it's been working out just fine, and there's been no hint of anything _improper_ going on, ever. So if you're thinking that our 'unorthodox' arrangement is the key to whatever you're investigating, then you're barking up the wrong tree."

"Your loyalty is touching," Matterly drawled. "But in terms of those files he keeps—hasn't it ever struck you as odd that all those supposedly guilty defendants got off on apparent technicalities when you yourself appeared before him twice on relatively weak charges and still couldn't manage to catch a break? Or at least, no break that didn't involve you ending up a virtual prisoner even without a conviction?"

McCormick opened his mouth instantly, but no words came out as he took about two seconds to wonder if that wasn't a fair question. But then the moment passed and he shook his head firmly.

"Uh-huh. You've missed the point entirely. What you're describing is just opposite sides of the same coin. Hardcastle believes in the letter of the law. In his files, he's got some probably guilty folks who ended up benefiting from that belief and went free. In my case, you've got a mostly innocent guy who caught the downside of that belief and went to prison." He looked at them with his most long-suffering expression. "What're you gonna do?"

"You can't expect us to be- -"

"It's impressive that you've managed to accept all of those circumstances," Sloane broke in calmly, stopping whatever it was his partner had intended to say.

The agent reached into his jacket pocket and produced a photograph, which he handed across to McCormick. "Do you know this man?"

McCormick took the picture and looked down into the face of Patrick Delancie, Hardcastle's recent drinking buddy. "Never met him," he replied honestly. "What's he got to do with Hardcastle?"

"We thought you might tell us." Sloane passed across another couple of photos, these showing Delancie and Hardcastle together.

"Hardcastle knows a lot of people," McCormick said evenly. "Who's this one?"

The agent took back the offered pictures and returned them to his pocket. "His name is Patrick Delancie, and he's a major player in the organized crime game back in California.

"When we got the initial complaints that started our investigation, they hinted that Hardcastle's strings were being pulled by someone with slightly different connections. We think maybe it's Delancie."

McCormick was staring again, and he could feel the angry flush creeping across his face. He realized then he wasn't going to be able to get information from these men; they were going to have to leave soon.

"You really expect me to believe Hardcastle is working for this Delancie guy?" His voice was low and even, but only with much effort. "Do you have _anyidea_ how ridiculous that is? I mean, do you know who you're talking about? This is _Milton_ _Hardcastle_, for God's sake!"

"It's precisely that attitude that has allowed him to stay hidden for the last thirty years," Matterly said. "What better cover for a judge on the take?"

"All right, that's it!" McCormick lost the battle to control his temper, and he rose quickly from his seat. "I've heard enough. You two need to get the hell out of here before I forget you're federal agents." He started purposefully toward the door.

"We came here because we need your help, Mr. McCormick."

McCormick whirled to face Sloane. "Help? With what? You sure as hell better not be expecting me to help you prove these ridiculous lies."

"Maybe you could look at it like you're helping prove us wrong," Sloane suggested quietly.

"He doesn't need help proving his innocence!" McCormick shouted. "How can you guys not get that?"

"How can- - -" Matterly clamped his mouth shut at Sloane's warning glare.

Sloane tried the reasonable approach. "McCormick. He's already the prime suspect in a murder investigation. Surely that's got to tell you something?"

The ex-con didn't take much time to wonder when the prime suspect label had officially been hung on the judge. It had really just been a matter of time, anyway.

"Yeah. It tells me the Las Vegas P.D. is almost as stupid as the F.B.I."

Sloane almost smiled. "Only almost?"

"At least they have an actual crime," McCormick explained hotly. "You guys are just running around talking about rumors and suspicions; trying to ruin somebody with nothin' but lies. Do you actually have anything resembling evidence?"

The agent gave a faint shrug. "Just a lot of peripheral connections right now. Seems a lot of the 'cases' you two have been involved in solving have some relationship with Delancie, though, to be fair, the man is involved in a lot of things. But, at least on the surface, it looks like Hardcastle is taking care of anyone who manages to get on Delancie's bad side."

"And just how convenient would that be?" McCormick barked. "All the people on Delancie's bad side just happen to be the people Hardcastle let off on technicalities in the past thirty years? Gimme a break."

"First of all, you said yourself that you don't really choose your cases, so they obviously didn't all come from the judge's files. But secondly, we think that connection to Delancie may have been what allowed them to get off in the first place."

"So Hardcastle's been on this guy's payroll for three decades or more? _That's_ your theory?" McCormick glared, waiting for some kind of denial, but it never came. "You're insane." He turned and resumed his stomp toward the door, then held it open and looked pointedly across the room.

Matterly looked like he might stand his ground just on general principle, but Sloane rose from his chair and motioned the other to do the same. Then, following his partner toward the exit, Sloane paused just in front of McCormick, holding out a business card.

"Mr. McCormick," he began in a low, reasonable tone, "if you are involved in anything that you'd rather not be, or if you should discover that things are not what they seem and you would like to change the terms of your parole, we can help you. Just call me."

The young man shook his head. "I wouldn't count on it," he said, but he did allow the agent to press the card into his hand just before he closed the door loudly behind them.

Then he leaned his forehead against the door and closed his eyes. "Hardcase, what have you gotten yourself into now?"

00000

Alone in the lounge, Hardcastle took a slow sip of his drink, then glanced at his watch. He thought he'd give it another half an hour, then go back upstairs and see if the kid wanted to have lunch. Of course, that was probably a toss up. McCormick had tried hard last night, but dinner was still a little tense. And when Mark McCormick couldn't relax over pizza, something was definitely wrong. He shook his head and took another drink, hating that the thing that was wrong this time was _him_. The Lone Ranger really didn't like working without his Tonto. He looked at his watch again. Twenty-five more minutes.

Seven minutes before his deadline, Hardcastle saw a small, sturdy, dark-haired figure approaching his table. He raised an eyebrow when the man slipped into the opposite chair without comment.

"You make a habit of sittin' at people's table uninvited?" he growled.

The other man smiled. "Never knew you were such a stickler for formalities, Hardcase."

"One always makes exceptions. Whatta ya want, Scapelli?"

Anthony Scapelli, underworld kingpin, frowned across the table. "Judge, I'm hurt. Can't I just visit an old friend?"

"We're not friends, and I don't visit with low-life racketeers, so why don't you drag your way back to whatever hole you crawled up from."

"I'm gonna ignore that, Hardcastle," Scapelli said evenly, "because I have something to say that I think will be beneficial to both of us.

"Now, listen. I saw you had two guests at your table this morning, and since one of them was Delancie, I know you're not too concerned about the type of people you associate with.

"But it was the police officer that I thought was most interesting. I assume he stopped by to tell you that they're getting closer to making their case?"

"You seem to know everything," Hardcastle snapped. "But my recommendation would probably be that you stay the hell out of my personal life."

Scapelli ignored the advice. "Yeah. They aren't going to risk arresting a retired judge until they've got all the pieces nailed down, but my sources say that won't take long. And, no offense, Judge, but you going away for murder seems like it might be bad for your health. In fact, it sort of seems like a really bad idea all the way around.

"But what if I could help?"

"I don't need your help," Hardcastle said flatly.

"My sources say otherwise," Scapelli answered. "And I have access to some legal expertise that could be very helpful in this situation."

Hardcastle snorted. "I bet."

"Of course it's possible my offer is premature," Scapelli continued, as if Hardcastle hadn't spoken. "After all, there haven't even been formal charges as yet. But if it should come to that, keep in mind that I have many services to offer, all for very reasonable fees."

The judge shook his head. "And there's a couple of things you should keep in mind, too, Scapelli: One, filing charges is a long way from being convicted, and, two, I'd rather rot in prison than do business with you."

Scapelli smiled grimly. "Very easy to say this early in the game, Judge. But there's something else I know about your personal life, too. You've got some guy staying with you, right? A parolee? You should think about what's gonna happen to him if you go away. Tell me, from the legal perspective, can you still execute a judicial stay from behind bars?"

"Leave him out of it," Hardcastle growled darkly.

"I'm not involving him; I'm just telling you to remember that your actions affect others besides yourself." He rose from the table.

"Trust me, Hardcastle; you're on the wrong side of the justice system now, and you're not gonna survive without some help. Your buddy, Delancie, doesn't have the connections here to do you any good, so when you change your mind, I'll be around."

Hardcastle watched him walk away, then decided he needed to make a phone call before lunch.

00000

"What do you mean, he knows about Delancie?" Hardcastle said angrily.

"Seemed pretty clear to me," Harper replied, not responding to the tone. "When I talked to him before, he didn't seem to know anything. But by this morning, he had a name to go with the face."

Hardcastle rubbed at his eyes wearily. "How does he do that? Besides, he told me he'd stay out of it."

"He's worried about you."

"Oh, I know." Hardcastle sounded resigned. "But now Scapelli's talking about him, and I don't like that one little bit. I don't want him involved in this one."

"And I've told you; I don't think you can keep him out of it. Why not just tell him what's going on?"

"Because he won't like it."

Harper laughed. "When does he ever?"

"Seriously. I didn't tell him beforehand because he would've had a million reasons why we shouldn't do it. And you know what, Frank? I think he would've managed to talk me out of it. Now I don't know what to do with him. It's too late to back out now, and the kid's like some kind of dog with a bone, or something." The judge sighed heavily into the phone.

"I shouldn't have brought him here," Hardcastle continued sadly. "He's gonna end up getting hurt and it's gonna be my fault. I wonder if there's a way to send him home?"

"Not likely," Frank answered. "Why _did_ you take him, anyway? I mean, if you don't want him involved, don't even want him to know what's going on?"

"I don't know. I guess because . . ." Hardcastle trailed off, considering. Because he could always count on the kid to have his back, even without asking? Because no matter what was going on, it seemed more bearable with McCormick? Because if something should go wrong, he knew McCormick would help fix it? Finally, he spoke again.

"Because I wanted to be sure I'd have a house to go home to when this is done. If the kid had one of his famous poker games, there's no telling what might happen."

"Okay," Harper replied evenly, and Hardcastle knew the detective had heard every single one of his answers.

00000

Hardcastle found McCormick sitting on an unmade bed, watching television, and munching on a bag of potato chips, soda can at his side.

"Have you even been out of the room today?"

"Went to the vending machine," McCormick answered, holding up the small bag of chips.

"I thought you'd go out and have some fun. It's supposed to be your vacation."

"I didn't come here to vacation alone. Especially not while you're out working on God knows what."

Hardcastle sighed, and then thought briefly that he was doing a lot of that lately. Maybe he was getting too old for this crap.

"McCormick . . ."

"I'm not asking," Mark replied quickly, putting up his hand to ward off the objections. "And I'm not complaining. I'm just saying."

There was a short silence, then McCormick spoke again.

"By the way, that cop, Colbert, came looking for you this morning."

"He found me," Hardcastle told him. "Did he say anything to you?"

McCormick shook his head. "Not much. Asked me where I was the night of the murder, then muttered something about wondering why we came to a town filled with people if all we wanted to do was spend time wandering around by ourselves. Asked me a few questions about you. Imagine, me as a character reference for you." He grinned slightly.

"Well, I hope you gave me a good one," Hardcastle said, relieved to see some humor drifting back into his friend's face.

A shrug. "Told him I was the only one likely to make you angry enough to do in."

"That's helpful."

What humor there had been in the young eyes faded. "Seriously, are things okay with that?"

"No number stenciled on my chest yet," Hardcastle assured him, then decided quickly that was too flippant when he saw the flash in McCormick's eyes.

"They're still investigating," he said more seriously, "not ready to make an arrest yet. Probably soon, though."

"And you're still just gonna let this go without any investigation of our own?" McCormick asked, astounded.

"I didn't do it."

"Judge, you have way too much faith in the system."

And then there was silence again.

Finally, Hardcastle said, "Well, I'm not doin' anything right now, and I came to see if you wanted to have lunch." He gestured toward the snacks on the bedside table. "Unless you're holding out for the next course in that feast."

That managed to get through, and Mark was laughing as he pushed himself off the bed. "There's always time for a slightly melted chocolate bar later. Let's go eat."

00000

McCormick's good humor had been short lived, and as they sat at the table in the restaurant, Hardcastle decided the kid wasn't all that much fun when he was pissed. _Or_ _hurt_, he corrected himself. The young man never had been fond of staying out of things for his own good.

"I need to ask you something, Judge," McCormick said quietly, breaking into his thoughts.

Hardcastle raised a warning eyebrow, and McCormick added quickly, "It's not about your case. I mean, I don't know if it's about your case, but that's not why I'm asking. And if you just tell me to butt out . . . well, I guess I will, but I won't be happy about it."

"Go on," Hardcastle said cautiously.

"Some guys came to see me today, Judge, from the F.B.I."

"_What_?"

"Yeah. Asking some questions about you, and my parole and stuff."

"What did you tell them?"

"What do you mean, what did I tell them? I just told them the truth, what else? But, Judge, they're saying bad stuff about you. And they've got pictures of you with that mob guy, Delancie."

"What're you asking me, McCormick?" Hardcastle asked, suddenly weary. "Are you asking me if what they're saying is true?"

"Of course not!"

Hardcastle managed to take some relief in the outraged denial, but it didn't do much to diminish the anger he could feel building. "I'm sorry you got dragged into this."

McCormick looked at him intently. "I don't care about being dragged into it; I'd just like to have some idea what _it_ is. What I'm asking is the same thing I've been asking all week. What the hell is going on?"

But Hardcastle just pulled a hand across his chin and shook his head.

"Judge," McCormick pleaded, "if these people think you're involved in something, we need to get that worked out. Could you please just let me help you with whatever this is? _Please_."

Hating himself with every word, Hardcastle replied firmly, "I can handle this, McCormick. It's nothing you need to worry about."

Then he watched the anger and confusion and fear battle for control in McCormick's eyes until the young man reigned it all in and covered it with the mask that Hardcastle knew he used to protect himself from the world. He decided it probably couldn't get any worse than it was right this second, so he said the last thing he wanted to say.

"Would you consider going home? I'll fly back when I'm done here."

And for a moment, he thought McCormick's anger might win out and the answer would be yes, but the moment didn't last.

"I'll drive you home, Judge. If that's what it's come down to, and that's all I can do, then I'll do that." The tone was dull and flat, devoid of emotion, and still managed to break the judge's heart.

"Do you have plans this afternoon?" McCormick continued in the same lifeless voice. "Or tonight?"

Hardcastle glanced at his watch and jumped at the opening. "Yeah, in just a bit, actually. I've gotta meet someone downtown. Sorry, kid."

But McCormick just shrugged and picked up his fork. "Then I guess we better hurry and finish lunch."

00000

McCormick thought Andrew the Doorman might be able to become Andrew the Retired by the time this vacation was over. But it had been money well spent so far, and he was hoping the trend would continue.

This time, hoping that "downtown" had meant Hardcastle would need to take a cab to his meeting, McCormick had arranged for Andrew to stash him in a taxi at the end of the waiting row of cabs, with a driver that he had been assured wouldn't have any problems with the directive 'follow that car'. So now he was hunched down in the back seat, with the meter running, and it was the first time he'd been grateful that Hardcastle had been throwing money at him all week long.

He waited close to twenty minutes, making idle conversation with the driver, Sal, before Hardcastle emerged from the hotel and motioned for the doorman to flag a cab. "That's him," he said to his cabbie, though Andrew had already discreetly identified him, as well.

"Okay," McCormick said as Hardcastle's cab pulled away from the door, "this isn't like in the movies. I don't want to end up in a high-speed chase down the strip. The point is to be discreet, but still end up wherever he does."

The driver grinned into the rearview mirror as he pulled slowly away a couple of car lengths behind the other cab. "I got it; slow and easy. For a running meter and an extra hundred, we can follow this guy all day for all I care." They followed the cab sedately past the manicured lawn and decorative fountains of the hotel property, then turned right onto Las Vegas Boulevard, keeping Hardcastle in view, but not overtaking.

"I thought you said he was probably going downtown," Sal commented as they pulled onto the strip. "Maybe the Four Queens?"

"That's what I thought," McCormick replied from the backseat. "Maybe he meant 'downtown' like the police station. I don't know. Let's just see where he goes."

"Doesn't look like the police station," the driver said after just a moment. "They're turning on Flamingo."

McCormick just shrugged. "Well, if I knew for sure, I woulda just met him there."

"Looks like a short ride; they're pulling into Bourbon Street."

"Don't go in there," McCormick said suddenly, instinctively slouching down in his seat, even though he knew Hardcastle couldn't see him. "Can you go past, then turn around and come right back?"

"Okay," Sal replied dubiously.

"That's not where he's going," Mark explained. "We're like, what? _Maybe_ half a mile from Caesar's? He would never take a cab here; he woulda just walked. Damn donkey, he probably thinks I might be following him; he's trying to figure it out. So just be careful."

Sal grinned as he completed his turn and came up on the Bourbon Street hotel from the other direction. "This is gonna be fun."

"Not if we lose him." McCormick scanned the row of waiting cabs at the entry area of the hotel. "That cab he was in, some company named Pace, right?"

"Car three forty-four," Sal confirmed. "They're waiting right up close in the drop-off area. He can't stay there very long."

"Okay, then, just hang back a little. Make sure you can see him when he pulls back out, because he isn't getting out here."

And, just as predicted, after just a couple of minutes, the cab pulled away again, Hardcastle still inside. "Donkey," McCormick muttered under his breath.

They had repeated that pattern of pulling in and not dropping off at two more casinos before McCormick was convinced they'd been made.

"He's on to us, Sal," he said as they pulled out of the Tropicana parking lot. "So stay sharp."

As if to prove his point, their leading cab suddenly accelerated and darted through a series of lane changes that increased their lead by several car lengths.

"Dammit," Sal grumbled as he watched the traffic for an opening, then made a lane change with far too little clearance.

McCormick decided instantly he didn't like being a passenger in these situations. "Um, no offense, Sal, but I'm not sure we ought to be trying maneuvers like that. He's not gonna give us much of a slip on this road in this traffic, but if you kill us, I'll never know what he was doing."

With a small chuckle, Sal answered, "Okay. Might've gotten a little carried away in the excitement of it all, but I'll tone it down some. I won't lose him, though."

True to his word, Sal managed to keep Hardcastle's cab in sight, and, several minutes later, he announced, "They're going into Circus Circus."

By now he'd learned the routine, and the cabbie hung back a bit after pulling into the parking lot, but they could clearly see Hardcastle exiting his cab and heading into the casino.

"Looks like this is the place." Sal said, as he started to pull close to the door, but McCormick stopped him.

"Hang on. Can you just park over there in that lot for a few minutes? I just want to see what happens next. Make sure you stay where you can see both of those doors, because he'll be back out. Honestly, the idea of that guy deciding to spend any time inside a pink and white building with trapeze artists flying around and kids screaming their heads off . . . well, let's just say I give it about five minutes."

As it turned out, it took eight, but then Hardcastle came striding quickly back into the sunlight, his eyes looking quickly in all directions.

Sal grinned. "You know him pretty well."

"Usually," Mark replied, and tried not to wonder—again—why he was being excluded from whatever was happening now. But as soon as the judge started moving again, he realized he had something new to worry about.

"Damn. He's not gettin' back in a cab." He watched Hardcastle set off to cross the street on foot. "Maybe the Riviera," McCormick mumbled to himself. He spoke louder. "Where's the taxi stand at the Riviera?"

"Around back."

"Okay." McCormick glanced at the meter—$42.90—and reached into his pocket. Handing a hundred dollar bill over the seat, he spoke quickly.

"Now listen, Andrew says you're a stand-up guy, so this is what I want you to do. I want you to go around back and see if he gets into another cab. If he does, then shag your ass back over here and pick me up and we'll keep it up. I'm gonna stay here and watch this side to see if he leaves the hotel on foot. We'll give it fifteen minutes; if he's not out by then, I'm going in. If that happens, come back to Caesar's later and I'll get you the rest of your money, okay?"

Sal seemed more caught up in the intrigue of it all than the money. "Yeah, I got it. I'll go keep an eye out."

"Okay, hurry up," McCormick said as he crawled out of the cab. "Fifteen minutes," he added as a last reminder. He watched as Sal made his way through traffic and across the street, then he found a spot that let him watch the hotel without being too conspicuous, though he did worry for a moment that loitering around a bunch of parked cars could look pretty bad for a guy with his history. _Hope the cops are busy somewhere else._

He had come up with what he thought would be a pretty decent cover story—just in case—when Sal was suddenly roaring back into the parking lot. He ran quickly over to the car and jumped into the back seat.

"What? He's moving again?"

Sal nodded. "But not in a cab. He came out the back door all right, but he took off on foot."

"Well where the hell's he going back there?"

"It's gotta be the Hilton; there's not really anything else back there. Unless he's still just trying to confuse you." He shrugged. "I dunno. Whatta ya want to do?"

McCormick thought for a moment. "Can you get me there before him, without driving right by him?"

"Sure."

"Okay; let's do that. If it's just another stopover for him, then we'll keep following, but maybe he thinks he's in the clear now."

Five minutes later, they were again sitting in front of a hotel in a row of cabs, waiting on Milton Hardcastle. Ten minutes after that, the man himself came strolling up the long drive. McCormick was slouched completely down in the seat, ensuring that not even a stray wisp of his curly hair was visible through the window.

"He went inside," Sal reported.

"Did he look like he was watching for anything?" McCormick asked as he straightened back up.

"Not really. I don't think he knows you're here."

"Okay. Then I think I'll risk it. Surely he wouldn't have walked down here to lose someone he thinks he's already lost." McCormick hoped he was correct. After following the guy around for well over an hour, he was going to be annoyed if he didn't find out where Hardcastle was going.

He handed another hundred across the seat. "You've been great, Sal. Thanks."

But the driver hesitated. "I can't take any more money, Mark. I've been paid for my time, and this was way too much fun."

McCormick grinned. "I don't think too much about the fun aspects of tailing people anymore, Sal, but you could be right about that. But still, a deal's a deal, and you've been more help than you can know. So take the money, and take my advice: don't make a habit of this kind of thing."

Sal laughed as he took the offered bill. "Thanks, Mark, and I'll remember what you said. Good luck. I hope you and Milt work everything out."

McCormick laughed to himself as he walked up the sidewalk and into the building. He'd have to remember to ask Andrew exactly what he'd told Sal to get him to go along with this surveillance operation.

Inside, he wandered toward the registration area, then stopped suddenly and had to duck behind a pack of tourists waiting for their tour operator to get them checked in. He blended in with the crowd until he saw Hardcastle walk away from the guest services desk and stride through the casino. Then he walked purposefully to the desk himself.

"Hi," he greeted with a huge smile. "I'm hoping you can help me."

The blonde behind the desk returned the smile. "That's why we're here."

"My name's Jeff McMillan, and I'm on a quest to make a good first impression. I'm supposed to try and close a major deal for small-scale harvest equipment with a gentleman named Carl Plummer. I think that was him you were just talking to, so I was hoping if he maybe gave you any idea of things he was interested in, or- -"

"Sorry, Mr. McMillan," the clerk interrupted, "but I think you've got the wrong guy. That gentleman is here for a symposium on office equipment."

"Office equipment?" McCormick tried to turn his surprised sputter into a polite chuckle. "Well then, my mistake. I guess you really saved me." He paused. "There's really a _symposium_ for office equipment?"

The woman smiled. "You bet. They're meeting in one of our small conference rooms in Salon B. You'd be surprised the variety of people we get here. After all, you're selling farm equipment."

He smiled back at her. "True enough. Okay, well I guess I better go keep an eye out for Mr. Plummer. Thanks again for keeping from making a fool of myself." And with a friendly wave, he started toward the conference area and Salon B.

Salon B turned out to be comprised of two separate conference rooms in the far back corner of a fairly large convention area. McCormick grinned at the goofy cardboard sign in front of the second door: Office Productivity for the Future.

_What the hell kind of scam is that?_

He picked up a flyer on copy machines—_Somebody is really covering their bases,_ he thought—and leaned casually against the door. He could barely make out the heated discussion going on inside. Hardcastle seemed to be displeased with . . . _the federal agents? What the hell?_ He listened intently.

"You did _what_?" Oh, yeah; Hardcastle was definitely displeased.

"Given his background," Matterly answered, trying to stand firm, "we thought it might be helpful if he knew the story. Thought he might get the word out somehow."

"'Given his background'?" Hardcastle's voice had dropped to a dangerous low. "What do you think you know about his background?"

"Judge, he only meant- - "

"Don't try to protect him," Hardcastle interrupted Sloane. He turned his attention back to Matterly. "Well? I asked you a question."

"He is a con, Hardcastle," Matterly replied, trying to regain some gusto.

"_Ex_-con," Hardcastle corrected firmly. "And I hope you're not gonna tell me you think that says everything about a person, or you're a bigger jackass than I thought."

McCormick smiled slightly to himself. _Thanks, Judge._

"Look, I thought we were all on the same side here," Matterly said angrily. "We're going to use whatever means we have to in order to bring this guy down."

Hardcastle's tone turned to ice. "You won't use 'whatever means' as long as you're working with me," he shouted back at the agent. "And you won't involve McCormick!"

McCormick had waited as long as humanly possible; his patience was gone. "Won't involve me in _what_, Hardcastle?" he demanded as he burst into the conference room. "What in the hell is going on here?"

Three pairs of eyes stared at him in stunned silence. McCormick almost laughed at Hardcastle's expression of disbelief. "What? I followed you once, Hardcase, you didn't think I'd do it again?"

"I thought I'd lost you," Hardcastle admitted, finally finding his voice.

McCormick allowed himself a small grin. "You're good, Judge, but I am so much better." He sobered quickly. "Now you wanna tell me what the hell's happening?"

Hardcastle sighed. "Close the door and sit down."

"Now hold on there, Judge," Matterly began strongly, "you can't jeopardize this case by bringing him into this."

"I'm not the one who brought him in," Hardcastle reminded the agent. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I specifically told you to leave him the hell alone."

Matterly couldn't argue with that, so he simply motioned McCormick toward a seat and walked to close the door.

00000

Hardcastle chose a seat directly across from McCormick, though it might've been more comfortable had he not been in the direct line of that expectant gaze.

"Well?"

The most amazing thing to Hardcastle was the deep and open concern shining in the blue eyes that watched him so intently. Not suspicion. Not uncertainty. Not even anger—well, not much, anyway. Just an honest concern for a friend and an unspoken promise that he would do anything to help. Hardcastle wasn't sure when he had felt more ashamed.

"I'm sorry, kid."

McCormick brushed the comment away. "Just tell me what's going on, Judge. And tell me that you're okay."

Hardcastle smiled slightly. "Yeah, I'm fine, McCormick. The thing is, there's this judge—maybe a few cops, too—working for the wrong side. Looks like he's working for this mob guy- -"

"Delancie?" McCormick interrupted.

"No. Patrick's a friend of mine."

"Patrick Delancie is a _friend_ of yours?"

"Do you wanna let me tell this story or not?" Hardcastle growled.

McCormick grimaced at the tone. "Sorry."

"Anyway," the judge continued, "we've got these supposed good guys out here working for the bad guys. This mobster's name is Scapelli, and he's got a judge on his payroll."

McCormick smiled slightly at the undisguised disgust in Hardcastle's voice. The judge hated to see his precious legal system tarnished. "It's a travesty, to be sure," he replied dryly, "but what the hell does that have to do with you?"

"What do you mean?" Hardcastle demanded. "Do you really think I'm just gonna let a crooked judge stay on the bench?"

"Of course not," McCormick answered with a heavy sigh. He put the pieces together. "So you're trying to end up in his court?" Hardcastle nodded, and McCormick launched into his typical argument. "Couldn't we let the cops handle things for once? There's not enough going on back at home, you have to leave the state to go lookin' for bad guys?" He motioned at the agents sitting quietly at the table. "Can't we just let these guys do their job?"

"We asked for his help," Sloane interjected.

"Why?" the young man demanded. "You've got an agency full of people at your disposal. Why involve a civilian?"

"We needed someone we could trust without question and someone Scapelli would be interested in. This particular civilian carries a lot of weight, you know."

"Yeah, for now," Mark answered bitterly. "You guys keep going around spreading rumors about him being in bed with the mob and you're gonna ruin his life."

"Don't be so dramatic, kid," Hardcastle chided gently.

"I'm serious, Judge!" McCormick's voice rose an octave. "You've worked your whole life to build the reputation you have. You've earned it; you can't just let it be destroyed over one lousy case.

"Besides, what if all your scheming doesn't work? What if you actually get convicted of this murder?"

"First of all, McCormick, I don't scheme; I plan. And secondly, my plans always work. This guy is going to find a way to get me off, even though the D.A. has an airtight case. Besides, I'm innocent."

"Take it from me, Judge, sometimes guilt or innocence doesn't have much to do with it."

Hardcastle frowned slightly. Would McCormick ever really let go of that resentment? Aloud he said, "In my case, hotshot, there hasn't actually been a crime, so even if I should be convicted, it'll be overturned before I leave the court room."

McCormick stared. "What do you mean, no crime? A guy is dead, Judge!"

"Yeah, well . . . not entirely dead, really."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's all been a set-up, kid. Jarrod is an agent from a Midwest field office. He flew in to make a scene and get gunned down, then he went back home. We won't really be able to risk having the D.A. dismiss the case, no matter how it seems the trial is going, because we don't know when the judge might make his move. But it won't matter what the jury does, since no one died."

"Judge," Mark objected, "even I know you can't have a murder without a body. They'd never make that work, especially against you."

Sloane spoke up. "We took care of that part; everything was arranged. Planted witnesses reported the body, and one of our guys who's been working inside the local department was the first responder. Then a couple of agents moved in and confiscated the 'body'." The agent shrugged.

"Then we just spun them a tale: Protected witness who fled from custody before testifying; we needed to keep his identity confidential, so we said we'd handle the forensic work. The locals didn't argue too much, since we were willing to let them have the collar, as long as they did it our way."

McCormick shook his head and turned his attention back to Hardcastle. "This whole thing is insane. I mean, you know that, right?"

"It's important, kid," Hardcastle said quietly.

For a long moment, McCormick simply stared across the table. Finally, he sighed. "So what do you want me to do?"

Hardcastle smiled gently, immediately understanding just why he had brought McCormick along . . . and why he couldn't stay. "I want you to go home."

A brief laugh escaped McCormick's lips before he realized Hardcastle was serious. His face hardened. "You want _what_?"

"You heard me," the judge replied firmly. "I should've insisted earlier. I don't know what I was thinkin', bringing you here in the first place. You're right for once; I shouldn't drag you into things like this. Go home and hold down the fort there until I get back."

"You mean, go home and stay out of the way," McCormick said hotly. "And like hell I will."

"You'll do what I say, kid," Hardcastle replied, a new—but not surprising—menace to his tone.

"Like hell I will," McCormick repeated, rising from his chair. "You might not know what you were thinkin' when you brought me here, but I think that's the only sane idea you've had during this whole thing." He placed his palms on the tabletop and leaned across to stare directly into Hardcastle's eyes. "I'm not going."

"He probably could help us, Judge," came a quiet voice from the other end of the table.

Hardcastle and McCormick jerked their heads to look at Sloane. They had almost forgotten the agents were there.

Hardcastle would've been content to let them stay invisible. He ignored McCormick's smirk of victory, and directed his comments to Sloane. "I told you, he's not gonna be involved."

"Judge- -"

"Listen, Hardcase- -"

"Hardcastle- -"

Hardcastle just stared as the other three men broke off their simultaneous arguments.

McCormick grinned. "Face it, Hardcase; you're outnumbered."

"Except for the fact that _they_," Hardcastle jerked his thumb toward the agents, "can't tell me what to do, and _your_ vote doesn't count."

McCormick simply glared at the older man for a long, long moment until Hardcastle finally relented. "Oh, all right," the judge huffed, "you can stay." And though he made a huge show of annoyance, Hardcastle couldn't deny the immediate relief that swept over him. But his relief vanished with the young man's next words.

"Good. Now that that's settled, I have an idea."

The judge eyed him anxiously, but McCormick was undeterred. "The thing is, guys, I don't like this whole idea of using the judge's reputation as bait. Honestly, I don't know if I'm more afraid that the story won't be believed or that it _will_. Either way is trouble." The young man seated himself again and gazed intently at his friend. "You can't sacrifice everything you've worked for because of one case, no matter how important it is."

Hardcastle found himself unable to maintain the gruff demeanor, and he smiled gently. "I told you not to worry about that." He paused a moment, then said, "I'm almost afraid to ask, but what's your idea?"

"I'm the one that needs to go to trial, Judge."

The gruff demeanor came back easily. "What?"

"No, just think about it a minute," McCormick said quickly, including the agents in the conversation with his look. "Even if you aren't worried about protecting your reputation, it might actually work against you right now. If you're gonna build your entire case around the fact that this judge is gonna let you off, shouldn't you eliminate all other possible motives? I mean, c'mon, Judge, you're Milton C. Hardcastle, for Chrissake. Your reputation alone could get you off, and then your slime ball judge has a reasonable excuse and gets to go right on sittin' on the bench."

"That's why we're trying to build him a different reputation," Matterly reminded him.

"I know. But that's a lot of unnecessary work. Put me on trial and you can eliminate all of those problems. If anyone lets _me_ off when there's an airtight murder case, then you know there's something fishy going on."

Hardcastle suddenly found himself hating McCormick's instinctive flair for this business. But still . . . "No offense, kid, but what's Scapelli gonna want with you?"

"He's not; you're still gonna be the bait for him. We can play it like you're willing to sacrifice your principles to save poor, little ol' me."

The grin on the young man's face almost dared the judge to make a snide remark, but Hardcastle had other things in mind. "And just what's the difference?" he demanded. "Either way, I still end up doing business with a mobster to influence a judge."

"Oh, come on, Hardcase, you know the difference, so don't be difficult. The difference is after. Once we put this guy away, it becomes clear that this whole thing was just a set-up, one case—you helping the good guys one more time. But, jeez, Judge, you let them spread around this whole made up history about years of misconduct and bribery, and you're never gonna shake that. No matter what happens with Scapelli, some folks are always gonna wonder. There is just no reason for you to go through that when you've got an ex-con sitting right here, all set to be the ready-made patsy.

"Besides, it'll be easier to sell the idea that you've finally come across the one thing that would make you bend your principles than the fact that the whole Hardcase Hardcastle bit has been a sham since day one."

The judge considered for several long seconds. "That probably is more believable," he finally admitted, then laughed at the disbelief on McCormick's face. "What? Even you can sometimes come up with a bright idea or two." Hardcastle sobered. "But I need you to think about a couple of things."

McCormick didn't like the sound of that. "What?"

"It'll be a lot easier to land you in jail than me, whether there's actually a dead guy or not. If the parole board wanted to get tough, they could probably pull your ticket just for showing up on charges. Murder one is a hell of a parole violation, you know."

The young man paled slightly, but he answered calmly. "You'll fix it."

"If our story gets believed, I might not be able to fix it. Hard to pull judicial strings when people think you might try anything to protect someone."

"Then they'll fix it," McCormick replied, waving his hand toward the agents. "What's the other thing?"

"Arranging bail will be difficult."

That stopped him. He hadn't considered that idea at all, but, of course, the judge was right. No one was going to grant bail to an ex-convict up on a murder charge. But it was still better than the alternative. "I'll survive."

Again Hardcastle was amazed. Time and time again the young man had opened his heart, demonstrated how willing he was to help, to care. But even so, the judge wasn't prepared for this level of . . . loyalty. What had he done to deserve it? And, if he allowed this, would he ultimately lose it? The gentle smile was back. "Mark- - "

McCormick held up his hand. "I said I'll survive, Judge. It's not like I don't know the drill. A short stretch in county stir should be a piece of cake." He grinned slightly. "You might not know this, but a good friend of mine sent me up for a couple of _years_ one time."

Hardcastle finally managed to return the grin. "Helluva friend."

"He's the kind that grows on you," McCormick replied lightly. "Now, do you think we could spend some time figuring out how to make this visit to the slammer just a bit more temporary?"

And the four men huddled close to work out their plan.

00000

Hardcastle looked across the dinner table at the young man who was working his way through the steak and baked potato like nothing was wrong. McCormick was making normal look easy, but the judge thought that was probably all for his benefit. He watched silently for a couple of minutes until the kid finally looked up from his meal.

"What?"

Hardcastle gave his head a half shake. "I don't know about this, kiddo," he began.

"It'll be fine," McCormick answered, and returned to his meal.

"It's gonna happen pretty fast, ya know, probably tomorrow," the judge continued.

"I figured this was supposed to be my last meal."

Hardcastle didn't return the grin, and McCormick's slowly faded. He sighed slightly and placed his fork carefully on his plate.

"Judge, what is wrong with you? I've never seen you this uptight about a case before. Things are going to be fine." He smiled his most convincing smile.

Hardcastle gave a small shrug. "I know I've gotten you into some strange things over the last couple of years, kiddo, some tight spots. But sending you to jail? What if it takes too long to put this together? What if something happens?" He tried to smile. "Besides, you haven't completely forgiven me for the last time yet."

And beneath the failed attempt at glibness, Mark could see some true concern. Not just over nameless problems that might arise, but also some unexpected sense of guilt. He thought for a moment, not sure how to proceed.

"First of all, Judge, this time it's my idea, not yours. And as for last time, that's the past. And, believe it or not," he hesitated again, choosing his words carefully, then continued, "it's a past that I _understand . . . _even if I don't _agree_." He pulled in a breath. "But I don't have to agree to forgive." He waited for the disbelief to fade from the older blue eyes, then offered a small grin. "So can we please stay focused on this case? It's no more dangerous or hare-brained than anything else you've ever dragged me into, okay?"

The twinkle was finally back in the eyes when Hardcastle said, "Hah! Don't forget that this is _your_ hare-brained idea, kiddo; you just said so yourself."

Laughing, McCormick went back to his meal.


	2. Part II

**Chapter 5 **

They had just stepped off the elevator and started into the casino the next morning when the police showed up.

"Mark McCormick?" Two plain-clothes officers flanked him, effectively separating him from Hardcastle.

"Yes?" McCormick had enough experience to manage a sincere hint of fear.

"You're under arrest for the murder of Jarrod Lear." One of the officers spun him around, moving him another step from Hardcastle.

"What?" He twisted to look behind him. "Judge?"

"What's going on here?" Hardcastle demanded. "Is this some kind of joke? If you guys are just trying to get at me- - "

"It's no joke, sir," the second officer replied firmly, turning to block the judge from stepping too close. "We have a warrant for his arrest."

The Miranda reading was complete, and there was a part of Hardcastle that was pleased to see the detective returning a laminated card to his pocket. A larger part of him, though, was consumed with a renewed worry. If asked, he would've sworn that the fear on McCormick's face wasn't all for show. He heard the steel snap closed around the young man's wrists, and watched his friend's eyes close briefly, as if he were gathering his strength.

Fighting the impulse to put an end to the whole charade, Hardcastle stuck to his part. "I'll take care of this, McCormick," he said with as much conviction as he could muster. Then he called out as the officers began to lead their prisoner away, "I'll be down there soon, kid. Don't worry; I'll find a way to get you out of this."

The last thing he heard as McCormick was hustled around the corner was, "You've made a big mistake."

_God, I hope not._

00000

"I'm telling you," Hardcastle said into the payphone, "I've got a really bad feeling about this."

"And I'm telling _you_," Frank Harper's voice replied, "quit worrying. He'll be fine. It sounds like everything is going according to plan."

"Of course it is," Hardcastle barked. "So far, all they've had to do was lock him up and then refuse to let me see him. That part of the plan is hard to mess up. It's what happens next that I'm worried about. Why am I the only one who seems to understand that I can't protect him while he's behind bars?"

"He survived San Quentin," Harper answered reasonably, "I think he can manage a week or so in Clark County lock-up."

Hardcastle just shook his head slowly and gripped the phone tighter. Of course Harper was right; his mind understood that completely. Now if his gut would just get on board. "Next time," he instructed, "you make me leave him home."

Harper laughed. "You mean the next time you're approached by federal agents to help break open a conspiracy involving organized crime and a legally elected judge by going undercover as a guy on the take yourself who ends up killing some stranger in a fit of passion just so you can go up on charges before the allegedly crooked judge? The next time _that_ happens?"

"Yes," Hardcastle answered with a grin, "the next time. McCormick has to stay home. You remind me."

"No way," the detective replied with amused indignation. "He's the only sane one out there."

Hardcastle was laughing as he hung up the phone.

00000

"Now listen to me," Hardcastle said angrily to the desk sergeant, "I let you run me out of here this morning because you said you hadn't had time to process him yet, but that was over six hours ago. If you don't have him processed by now, I'm gonna have to start asking questions about the legalities of his arrest, and I don't think you want false imprisonment charges levied against this department. I am his legally retained counsel, and I am entitled to confer with my client, so I suggest you produce him immediately before I start making my questions more official and things get nasty."

The sergeant glared across the desk, but he didn't try to argue any further. "I'll have him brought to a conference room," he answered, somehow managing to make it sound like he was doing Hardcastle a favor. He jerked a thumb down hallway. "The elevator's that way; second floor, check in with the desk up there. Be about ten or fifteen minutes."

Hardcastle grunted a barely civil reply, then turned and strode purposefully down the hall. He took the brief trip up the elevator, identified himself to the second floor clerk, let himself be directed to one of the small private rooms, then sat waiting impatiently. It was almost half an hour before the door opened and he stopped his nervous tapping on the tabletop. "Hey, kid," he greeted as McCormick was led into the room.

Mark flashed a small smile as the officer pulled a chair from the table then shoved him roughly down into the seat. "You, stay put."

"Not a problem," McCormick answered.

"Aren't you going to remove his restraints?" Hardcastle asked when the officer started back out the door.

"He's a murderer," the man said, as if that explained everything. Then he added, "Violent felons are always restrained when out of their cell."

"I don't mean to be too much of a stickler," Hardcastle said archly, "but do you think we could try to remember that he hasn't been convicted of anything yet?"

The officer turned back and gave a shrug. "Okay. _Alleged_ violent felons are always restrained when out of their cell. You've got half an hour." And then he was gone.

Under other circumstances McCormick might've laughed at the indignation on Hardcastle's face, but he had the impression this might not be the best time. Instead he gave a shrug of his own.

"They're cops, Judge, and I'm an ex-con facing a murder rap. Under some strange circumstances, too, I might add." He shrugged again. "That's the way it is, Hardcase; don't get yourself worked up."

"Don't make it okay, McCormick," Hardcastle growled, but he let it drop. He looked the kid up and down. "Can't say I'm too fond of you in basic denim. Are you doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," McCormick answered honestly. "Just lots of sittin' around waiting this morning; it took them a really long time to book me. Giving you the run around, huh?"

"You know this routine just a little too well, kid," the judge accused lightly.

"I won't even try to argue with that," Mark laughed. "I'll tell you what I wasn't expecting, though," he continued conversationally. "I didn't think you'd make it in here by yourself; thought you'd have to bring along some local guy to manage attorney privileges."

"I _am_ a local guy," Hardcastle replied importantly. "Nevada State Bar, 1946." He chuckled at the surprised look on McCormick's face. "I keep tellin' ya- -"

"Yeah, yeah," McCormick interrupted, "lots of things I don't know about you. I swear, sometimes I wish I had a file on _you_."

Grinning, he leaned back in his chair and steered the conversation. "So, you having any luck?" Neither of them really believed anyone would risk eavesdropping on a privileged conversation, but they weren't willing to risk being wrong.

"Not really," Hardcastle lamented. "The folks here are being spectacularly unhelpful. I'm pretty sure they think you actually killed this guy."

"More to the point, Judge, based on what the detectives were saying earlier, they think you might've known about it. That's probably not doing a lot toward helping you cash in any favors."

"You got that right. But I don't know how anyone could think that; it's ridiculous."

McCormick laughed. "So it's okay for them to think I killed a guy, but no way should they ever consider you involved in any way?"

"Exactly," Hardcastle said firmly, then winked at the younger man. He sobered. "I've still got some calls out, kid, some more people to talk to. I'm gonna get you out of here." He saw McCormick nod, then continued. "After I leave here I've gotta check in with the DA again. I'm trying to get you arraigned this afternoon, but they're fighting me on the bail. You might be stuck here for a while."

McCormick allowed his light-hearted demeanor to slip, but only a bit. "But not too long, right, Judge? I don't really want to be a permanent resident, ya know." He left it at that; no sense making the judge feel worse than he already did, when it was unlikely anyone was listening anyway.

"Yeah, kid," Hardcastle said sincerely, "not too long. I promise."

00000

Hardcastle sat by the pool in the early evening hours, nursing a beer and doing his best to look miserable. It wasn't really all that hard to pull off. The DA had proceeded with McCormick's arraignment, and it had gone as expected: bail had been denied, and the kid had been bound over for trial, with opening arguments set for twelve days out.

Twelve days. Hardcastle had done the math sitting at the defendant's table; add another three to seven days for the trial, maybe a couple more for jury deliberation, and then factor in all the weekends, and it could be pushing a month before he could spring the kid. It seemed like an eternity, but it was the earliest date they could get without pulling strings and raising suspicions. Hardcastle had almost done it anyway, would've argued with the judge or gone storming down to find the docket clerk and demand an earlier date, dragging along whoever would've been necessary to actually make it happen.

But McCormick seemed to have understood his intentions before he even had the opportunity to object. He could remember the gentle restraining hand on his arm just as he had moved to stand up, and Mark's softly whispered reassurance, "It's fine, Judge." And so he had simply nodded his acceptance, and scribbled down the appointed date and time.

The young man's public performance, however, had been less understanding, and more difficult to endure. The bailiff had moved in almost immediately to escort McCormick from the courtroom, and the kid had turned to him with an anguished expression on his face. "Judge, please! Don't let them put me away; I didn't do anything wrong. Judge, you promised!"

In the courtroom, Hardcastle had watched stoically as his friend came unglued and was forcibly removed from the area. But now, the endless repeating loop of memory that played in his head was making it easy to live up to his role as distraught protector.

_Damn kid. He's not supposed to be that good an actor._

Hardcastle was partway through his second beer when a strange man approached his table. "Judge Hardcastle?"

Hardcastle pretended to be surprised as he studied the casual clothing that was undoubtedly intended to allow this guy to blend in with the tourists. But he committed to memory every feature of the round face, blond hair, and brown eyes that never stopped moving. "You got the Hardcastle right," he said cautiously, "but I'm retired."

"May I join you?" the man asked politely.

Hardcastle gestured to a vacant chair. "It's a public pool."

The stranger offered a thin smile and got down to business. "It has come to the attention of my employer that you may be experiencing some difficulty that requires special assistance."

"Really?" the judge cocked an eyebrow at the man. "What kind of difficulty would that be, and who, exactly, is your employer?"

"It seems a friend of yours is currently witnessing the finer points of our criminal justice system, and he is witnessing them up close and personal."

Hardcastle narrowed his eyes. "And what's that to you, Mr. . . .?"

"Winston," the man supplied easily.

"So what's your interest in my friend and his legal situation, Mr. Winston? And, again, just who is your employer?"

Winston smiled again. "My employer specializes in difficult legal situations, Mr. Hardcastle, and he is certain he can be of service to you and Mr. McCormick."

Hardcastle stared the question across the table.

"Anthony Scapelli," Winston said simply, and the name fell into a thick silence.

Hardcastle's features hardened. "I spoke with your employer earlier this week," he said coldly. "I thought I made clear that I wasn't interested in doing business."

"Yes," Winston said with a nod, "he did mention that. However, he also said that circumstances had altered and that you might feel differently about it now."

"No, Mr. Winston, you can tell your employer that my feelings on this subject have not changed in the least."

Winston nodded again as he rose from the table. "I shall relay that message, Mr. Hardcastle, though Mr. Scapelli will undoubtedly be disappointed. But I will leave you with one thought. I was in the courthouse this afternoon, and it did appear that Mr. McCormick was counting on you to fix this problem for him. My sources tell me this will be difficult for you to accomplish on your own. There may come a time when you realize that my employer's offer is exactly the assistance you need to help your friend. I only hope that it will not be too late."

"Me, too," Hardcastle muttered as he watched the man disappear into the evening shadows.

00000

The next three days settled into a predictable pattern. Hardcastle would begin his day with a trip to the county jail to visit McCormick. They made only the slightest pretense of discussing a defense strategy; the visits were solely to give the young man a break from the routine of continual confinement. Then he would pay a visit to the district attorney's office, or look up a judge that he knew, or harass some member of the LVPD, trying to make it look like he was trying every trick in the book to spring McCormick legally. Then he would make a discreet phone call from a public phone to Agent Sloane just to touch base, return to the jail just before the end of visiting hours for one more visit, and then ultimately return to his hotel for a solitary dinner and more solitary time in some public area of the casino.

At some point before the end of each evening, he would hear from Mr. Winston—either in person or by phone—renewing his offer of assistance to Mr. McCormick. These games were wearing on Hardcastle's nerves already, but they had all agreed that it was too soon for him to appear to capitulate.

Day four had shaped up exactly the same as the other three, right up until the contact from Winston. This day it was a phone call, delivered to Hardcastle's dining table in the buffet.

"You do understand, Mr. Hardcastle," Winston was saying, "that prison in and of itself is not the only thing your friend has to fear, do you not? My employer is offering assistance in all aspects of these legal complexities. It is something you should think about." This time, Winston didn't wait for Hardcastle's refusal before he hung up the phone.

The judge stared at the phone for several long seconds, his appetite immediately gone. He didn't take another bite of food, but he stayed at the table for an appropriate amount of time before returning to his room to turn in for the evening.

00000

"You're early," McCormick commented as he dropped immediately into the chair across from Hardcastle. They'd been letting him come without his handcuffs for a couple of days now, but he understood the rules: sit down and stay seated.

"Are you all right?" Hardcastle asked without preamble.

Mark looked at him quizzically. He'd already decided he wasn't going to complain about his difficulty sleeping, and he didn't think he looked too bad just yet, so what was up with the judge? "Yeah," he answered slowly, "I'm fine." He looked more closely at the face across the table. "You're lookin' a little worn down, though; are _you_ okay?"

"Hmph!" Hardcastle scoffed. "Don't change the subject. Besides, I'm not the one spending my spare time in a cell."

"That's because you're a judge, Judge," McCormick grinned. "We all have our particular talents."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it," Hardcastle replied, rolling his eyes. "But listen, listen. I'm serious here. Did anything happen last night? Anything unusual, out of the ordinary in any way?"

The smart-ass response came without thought. "Judge, I'm in jail here; how much more out of the ordinary do you want?" But it only took about two seconds to realize Hardcastle was _serious_ when he said he was serious, and McCormick sobered.

"Sorry. No, nothing really unusual, why?"

But Hardcastle just shook his head. "No threats? Nothing like that?"

"Not really," McCormick answered, though he knew immediately it had been a poor choice of words.

"'Not really'?" Hardcastle repeated. "Just what the hell does that mean?"

The young man sighed. "People talk, Judge; threats get made. There have been a few guys who don't really approve of my choice of friends on the outside. It's nothing to get excited about."

"You didn't think that was something you should mention?" The judge's voice was rising dangerously.

"Ah, no, not really."

"Why the hell not?" Hardcastle demanded angrily.

"I dunno," McCormick replied dryly. "I guess I thought you might get worried and go a little crazy, then come runnin' down here and start yelling." He paused for effect. "I don't know what would've made me think that."

Hardcastle didn't give in to the grin that was suddenly pulling at the corners of his mouth, but he quit yelling. "Point taken, kiddo, but you can't keep stuff from me like that; I need to know what's going on. And I need you to be careful."

"I always am," the young man said sincerely, "and I promise I'll let you know if it turns into anything I can't handle."

That wasn't quite the reassurance Hardcastle had been hoping for, as he figured McCormick's idea of 'anything I can't handle' would be a far cry from his own definition, but he nodded.

"Okay. I had a call last night that sorta implied you might start havin' some problems, so just watch the guys that are doing the talking. It's only a week until the trial starts, and by then you oughta be pretty well protected, so just lay low until then."

McCormick just nodded, then cocked an eyebrow. "Are we done with the mother hen lecture?"

The judge did grin then; the kid's cocky attitude never failed to amuse him. "Yeah, kid, we're done."

"Good." Grinning himself, Mark reached into his shirt pocket. "They let me get some cards. We're in Vegas; we should play some blackjack. I figure you can just run a tab for all the money you'll owe me when I get outta here." He placed the deck on the table between them.

"Yeah," Hardcastle growled, "or I could just deposit it into your account here in case I decide not to bring you home."

McCormick's grin didn't fade. "You can't scare me, Hardcase; you're gettin' too old to break in someone new, so you're stuck with me."

The judge didn't comment as he began shuffling the cards, but he wondered—not for the first time—just how it was that this smart-mouthed kid could always make him feel better.

00000

Twelve hours later, Hardcastle was wondering—not for the first time—just how it was that Mark McCormick could always worry the hell out of him.

"What do you mean, I can't see him?" he demanded to the desk sergeant.

"He's been moved to a secure unit," the sergeant explained again.

"You mean he's been isolated? Why?" The jurist wasn't liking the sound of this at all.

"It's a disciplinary issue, and until he's released back into the general population, all visitation is suspended." This clearly was not the first time the sergeant had had to deliver this type of news.

"Well what's he being disciplined _for_?" Hardcastle asked, doing his best to maintain enough composure to gather information.

The sergeant consulted his clipboard. "He was involved in some kind of physical altercation," he told the judge.

"Physical alter- - You mean he was fighting? Was he hurt?"

"No," the sergeant replied, casting another glance at the board in his hands, "he isn't in the hospital ward. He's fine."

Hardcastle held his tongue, not wanting to risk making things worse for McCormick. After a moment, he said, "So I can see him tomorrow?"

One last look at the clipboard. "Day after tomorrow," he clarified. "One thirty." He continued on before Hardcastle could erupt. "It's a forty-eight hour period. That's when he'll be released. No visitation before that, from anybody."

Again Hardcastle quieted the words that sprang to mind, and kept his response civil. "Then that's when I'll be back," he said firmly. "Make a note of it."

00000

"This is exactly the kind of thing I was worried about," Hardcastle was saying hotly. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

"You're supposed to keep your cool and wait for Winston to contact you. Scapelli will surely have something more concrete to offer at this point." Agent Sloane had discovered early in the case that he couldn't out-shout Hardcastle, but he had him beat hands-down in the patience department. He had learned how to wait out the tirades.

Hardcastle brought himself under control with almost visible effort. "I don't want him treated like some common criminal," he said, more to himself than Sloane. "It should've been me."

The agent shook his head. "No disrespect to either of you, Judge, but I think we got the right man for the job."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? I already told that partner of yours not to be makin' assumptions about people just because of their past."

"I know," Sloane nodded, "and I get it. I get the idea that he's a good kid, and I know he's a good friend of yours. Judge, all I'm saying is that McCormick was right about this; he knows how to take care of himself in there. He's done his time and he knows what's what. It would've been more dangerous for you."

Hardcastle sighed heavily, and dropped into the chair in front of Sloane's desk. "I guess. It's not exactly _safe_ for him. And now they've got him stuck in some kind of solitary. I can only imagine how that's gonna hit him."

Sloane grinned very slightly. "Um, again, no offense, Judge, but I've met the kid. I think it's safe to assume he's probably been there before."

Hardcastle started to object to the characterization, but realized immediately the agent had a point. He managed a small laugh, feeling a little better.

"Yeah, you're right about that. Hell, even _I_ sent him to his room a time or two; the kid can't keep himself out of trouble." He took another calming breath.

"But he always survives."

00000

Hardcastle pushed the door closed behind him as he stepped into his hotel room. He had dropped in to pick up a book, intending to camp out by the pool again and wait for Winston to find him, but the flashing red light on the telephone caught his attention. He picked up the receiver and punched the button. "Messages for Hardcastle, room 839," he said to the answering clerk.

After a moment, the clerk responded, "Frank Harper called; no number and no message."

_Just checking in,_ Hardcastle thought. "Thank you. Any others?"

"One more. John Dalem; message to call as soon as possible. He left a callback number."

For a moment, Hardcastle was so startled, he lost track of the conversation. But then he heard the clerk saying, "Did you need the number, sir?" and her tone implied it wasn't the first time she had asked.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled, trying to focus. "Yes, I need the number; just give me a second to grab a pen." He reached into the drawer of the nightstand for what he needed, then said, "Go ahead." After copying down the number, he thanked the clerk, hung up the phone, then dropped onto the bed.

He sat numbly for a moment, trying to determine what the unexpected phone call could mean. Though Dalem had given up primary responsibility for McCormick's parole supervision over two years ago, he continued to serve as a liaison between Hardcastle and the parole board, ensuring that the bureaucratic guidelines were followed, at least superficially. For the most part, their interaction consisted of nothing more than a single-page report that Hardcastle would drop into the mail on the third of every month. He kept more detailed reports of McCormick's activities in his own files, though they were always available for Dalem—and the board—to review. But that had rarely been necessary. In fact, the last time the judge had spoken with Dalem had been months earlier, just after the Weed Randall incident.

Sitting quietly in his room, Hardcastle rubbed a hand absently across his forehead as he remembered how tense McCormick had been even talking about the required interview with Dalem; how nervous the young man had been in the long day and a half it had taken Dalem to return the official board decision that no request for revocation would be filed. Hardcastle had tried to offer assurance that everything would work out, that there could be no other finding; McCormick may have killed a man, but there had been nothing criminal about it. There had been no other choice, and even an agency as steeped in policy and bureaucracy as the parole board would not take issue with the shooting, or any of its surrounding details.

But McCormick would not be convinced until he heard the words from Dalem himself, and Hardcastle had been surprised to realize just how tenuous Mark believed his freedom to be. He had tried to convince himself that the unexpected reaction was the result of the kid spending too much time worrying at his bedside and not enough time taking care of himself—mental exhaustion more than any rational concern. But whatever the reason, McCormick had been terrified, and Hardcastle suddenly found some of that unreasonable fear filling his own heart now.

He shook his head roughly. This was stupid. There was less reason now to worry about McCormick's parole status than there had been in the Randall case. This was undercover work, nothing more. He picked up the phone and dialed the number. He was connected quickly; clearly his call had been expected.

"Milt," Dalem said over the line, "thanks for getting back to me so quickly."

"Of course," Hardcastle replied easily. "What can I do for you?"

"You could start by telling me that McCormick isn't really awaiting trial on murder charges and that he didn't really manage to get himself thrown into isolation while he was being held."

"I can't really tell you that, John," Hardcastle said slowly, "but I can tell you that it's not what it seems to be. How'd you hear about all this, anyway?"

"It's my job to know what's going on with him, Milt," Dalem answered without answering. "And just as important, it's your job to keep me informed about him. Why did I have to hear about this from someone else?" The voice held a definite undertone of reprimand.

Hardcastle hesitated just a second. He and Dalem had always had a decent working relationship, but it wasn't hard to understand why the kid didn't like the man much. He ignored the tone and answered the question honestly. "If there had been anything you needed to know, John, I would've told you."

"Are you sure about that?" Dalem challenged. "It's no secret the kid has become important to you. Though it is something of a mystery as to why," he added.

"I'm sure," the jurist responded firmly, not rising to the bait. "I can't give you any details right now, but I promise you, this is nothing you need to worry about."

"We're discussing revocation proceedings."

The words hung in the air. When the silence had finally stretched to an unbearable length, Hardcastle cleared his throat and spoke again.

"You're rushing into things," he said slowly.

"You'll have to give me more information than that, Milt," Dalem prodded.

"I told you, I can't give you details. But, listen, all I'm asking is for a little time. Don't do anything officially until after his trial. If he's acquitted, there'll be time enough to file then. If he's convicted, you guys can save yourself the paperwork. It's not like you could extradite him for parole violations when he's got a murder one rap hanging out here. Just wait and see how it plays out, and I'll explain everything when we get back to town."

"We?" Dalem questioned. "You seem pretty sure about that."

"Well I know he didn't really kill anyone," Hardcastle snapped, suddenly infuriated by Dalem's smugness, and wondering briefly how McCormick had managed to control his tongue in the six months he had reported to this man. It was nothing short of miraculous the kid hadn't ended up back inside on some kind of technical violation after about two conversations. He pinched the bridge of his nose and brought himself under control.

"There are things I'm not at liberty to discuss, John," he went on more calmly. "But you've known me a long time. You know I wouldn't let my personal feelings interfere with doing the right thing. Just like _I_ know the fact that you don't exactly care for the kid isn't going to cause you to rush into anything. We're both professionals, after all."

"All right, Milt," Dalem conceded grudgingly. "I'll just make a note that I had a preliminary conversation with you about the situation, and I'll leave everything in a pending status. But you need to keep me informed. I want to know the minute there's a verdict."

"I can do that," Hardcastle agreed. "I'll give you all the information then." With no more objections forthcoming, the judge thanked the other man for his cooperation and hung up the phone. He took a moment to try and decide whether he was angriest at Scapelli for trying to use McCormick in this fashion, Dalem for being so eager to assume the worst, or himself for putting the kid in this position to begin with.

Finally deciding it was too close to call, he simply grabbed his book and headed back out the door.

00000

The twilight had settled in deeply enough that reading had become impossible, so Hardcastle was simply sitting quietly by the pool. An hour ago or so, he had allowed a waitress to talk him into some fruity concoction in a tall, slender glass, and he was sipping it slowly. He probably should've just stuck with a beer, but at least it didn't come in a coconut.

"Good evening, Judge."

Hardcastle jerked his head around to look behind him. He'd been contemplating the goofy drink so intently he hadn't heard Winston approaching. _Careless._

"Mr. Winston," he replied casually.

This time, Winston didn't ask, but simply drew up the empty chair and sat opposite the judge. "Have you been thinking about our offer?"

_No tap dancing tonight,_ Hardcastle thought. "Mostly I've been thinking that your employer is making a big mistake. I know he sent someone after McCormick. He would be making an even bigger mistake to think that his activities will go unpunished."

Winston smiled grimly. "My employer does not like to be threatened; perhaps I should not relay your latest comment to him."

"On the contrary. I'd like to be _sure_ he knows."

"I do understand that Mr. McCormick got himself into a bit of trouble earlier today," Winston continued, as if Hardcastle hadn't spoken. "And, of course, punishment must be swift in certain circumstances; order and discipline must be maintained." If he had noticed the slow reddening of Hardcastle's face, or the fury that was building in his eyes, Winston was choosing to ignore it, as he went on with his lecture. "The _safety_ of the inmates must always be the primary concern, do you not agree? One just never knows what dangers may exist in such an environment."

"McCormick better not stumble across any more dangers in that environment," Hardcastle warned through gritted teeth.

"My employer can offer a solution to these problems, Judge Hardcastle. He is ready to enter into a mutually beneficial business relationship. For Mr. McCormick's sake, I think it is time you accepted his offer."

Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and examined his visitor, hoping he didn't look as worried as he felt. He banished the image in his mind of a depressed McCormick locked in a small, darkened cell; forced himself to believe it couldn't get worse; and took a small breath.

"Go to hell."

Winston didn't reply as he rose from the table and stalked away.

00000

The following day had been torturously long. Nothing new had transpired, except that the Federal agents, and even Frank Harper, had developed a new level of respect for Mark McCormick's ability to put up with the moods of Milton Hardcastle. When he was not getting what he wanted, the man brought a new meaning to the word 'unpleasant', and he was clearly not getting what he wanted as long as his young friend was confined. The day couldn't pass quickly enough for any of them.

Wednesday afternoon, Hardcastle was at the visitor's admission area at 1:15. "I'll wait," he said, when the Sergeant looked at his watch.

"When he's released," the officer explained, "he'll be taken to the showers and given a fresh set of clothes. It may be two o'clock before he can see visitors."

"I'll wait," Hardcastle repeated.

"Suit yourself," the man replied. "You know the way," and he picked up the phone to alert the upstairs office.

True to the prediction, it was forty minutes later when the door opened into the consultation room where Hardcastle waited. His heart ached when he saw his friend being led in. Wet, tousled hair usually gave McCormick a very child-like appearance, but the grim set to his jaw and the empty look in his eyes created a very different image.

He watched silently, unwilling to speak until the guard left them alone.

McCormick let himself be shoved into the chair; he didn't have any illusions that the cuffs would be coming off this time. He stared down at his hands, clasping them together so tightly white showed in his knuckles. He couldn't force himself to look at Hardcastle, but as soon as he heard the door close behind the guard, he spoke quietly.

"It wasn't my fault, Judge." He heard Hardcastle start to speak, but he continued anyway. "I mean, I fought back, I won't say that I didn't, but I didn't start it." He sighed. "But it was stupid. I'm sorry. I know I told you I'd be careful and stay out of trouble." He shook his head, still not looking up, and repeated, "I'm sorry."

"McCormick. Look at me." Hardcastle waited impatiently, not accustomed to having that particular tone ignored. He didn't seem pleased when he had to repeat himself. "I said, look at me."

McCormick didn't exactly lift his head, but turned it slightly so that he could raise his eyes to look up from under his curly hair. He didn't speak, but just waited for whatever the judge had to say.

"You think I'm mad about this?"

That surprised an answer from the kid. "Well . . . yeah."

"_Why?_"

The shocked disbelief in the tone was enough to finally cause McCormick to raise his head, lean back in his chair, and let his gaze fully meet up with Hardcastle's. "They just dragged me out of solitary confinement, Judge; that's not exactly a gold star, ya know."

"And why would I be mad about that? At you, anyway?" Hardcastle was clearly trying desperately to understand.

McCormick opened his mouth, then closed it again, seeming unsure of the answer himself. The only thing he knew for sure was that this moment had loomed in his mind for forty-eight hours, and he was terrified that the real judge might respond like his imaginary one.

After a few seconds, he spoke. "When you walk out of those gates, Judge," he began softly, "you tell yourself that it's over, that you're leaving it behind. And you do. You go on with your life. But those first few weeks on the outside, you find yourself still waking up at precisely six o'clock, and going to bed at nine. You have three meals a day, exactly on time. You don't really make any plans; you keep to yourself. And you tell yourself that it just takes time; two years worth of habits don't go away in a few days."

He paused for a moment, considering, but Hardcastle didn't interrupt, so Mark continued. "But more than that, you're suspicious; you watch everybody, all the time. You jump if someone walks up behind you unexpectedly; you don't let anyone touch you. And when the dreams come, and you're sitting awake in the dark for hours in the night, you tell yourself it's normal. You're gonna leave it behind you. It just takes time.

"And you know what? Eventually, you start to thinking you were right. Eventually, it gets easier. You sleep and eat when you want. You go out. You start to trust people again; just having someone stand close to you doesn't make you jump out of your skin. And even the dreams come less and less. You tell yourself you've left it behind."

The young man paused again, and sighed slightly. "But then, something happens. Maybe it's the smell in some diner you walked into. Or maybe a siren goes by in the night. It could be anything. But in that instant, you realize: it's not really gone. You didn't leave it behind; you just locked it away. But it's always there, Judge, all the time. And sometimes, every once in a while, you can feel yourself slipping. It's like you're being dragged back. Back to another time and place; back to another you." McCormick shook his head slightly, and raised his chained hands to run fingers through his hair.

"I don't know," he finally concluded. "I guess I just didn't want you thinking I'd slipped back too far."

Hardcastle stared at the solemn face across the table. He was pretty sure McCormick had not uttered that many words about his prison experience in the entire two years he'd known him, combined. He certainly had never put that many words together all at once, and with such complete honesty. Not a trace of sarcasm or humor to be found. And he was doing all this talking now because . . . what? He was afraid that he had disappointed somehow? Worried that the judge would think less of him? Unbelievable.

With a heavy heart, Hardcastle realized anew what a phenomenally bad idea it had been to allow McCormick to work this case. And for the first time, he truly understood the sacrifice the kid had made. He swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. His voice was a bit raspier than usual when he finally spoke.

"Listen, kiddo. You don't ever have to be worried about what I think about you. _Ever_. I know you, McCormick. That means I know you're not perfect, but I also know that no mistake you make is ever going to be malicious, or mean-spirited in any way. And I know none of them are ever going to be deliberately aimed at me.

"But mostly—and this is important, kiddo—there is no part of me that believes that you belong in here. No matter what you feel dragging on you, no matter how far you think you've slipped. I _know_ you. You're not gonna fall far, but I'm here to help you if you think you need it."

Hardcastle watched as a slow smile spread across McCormick's face, completely erasing the lines of tension, and returning the familiar twinkle to the young blue eyes, almost as if the strain of the last forty-eight hours had never been there. And that's when he realized that the kid's stress hadn't been caused by the confinement, but by worry about the _reaction_ to the confinement. Apparently, McCormick had been correct about his ability to handle this incarceration, as long as things stayed on an even keel between the two of them.

The judge smiled in return at his friend, deciding suddenly that it was okay that this kid could always make him feel better, as long as he could always do the same for him.

Minutes later, when Hardcastle felt he had delayed as long as he could, he found himself hoping fervently that bond would hold strong.

"I think I might've found a way to get you out of here, kiddo."

McCormick looked up, surprised. "Really?"

Hardcastle nodded. "Yep. Think I finally ran across the guy with the connections to make it happen."

"_Before_ the trial?" McCormick was still too cautious to just ask right out exactly what the hell was going on.

"Some things have become a little bit pressing," the judge said slowly. He drew in a breath and looked the kid directly in the eye. "I got a call from John Dalem the other day."

McCormick's eyebrows shot up, but he didn't remove his gaze. "Really?" _Really, really,_ his eyes seemed to say, _or part of the scam?_

Hardcastle held his own eyes steady. "Really." _No scam, kiddo. Really._

McCormick did look away then, but not before Hardcastle saw the glint of fear that flashed into his eyes. The judge kept talking, knowing the young man would want whatever information there was.

"Seems they heard about your troubles out here." He shrugged at the unasked question on the kid's face. "Not sure how, but you know how it is: people talk. Word gets around." And while that was certainly possible, they both knew it was much more likely that Scapelli had simply found a way to push his target further into a corner. Mark might manage to beat a murder rap, but if there was a revocation hearing waiting afterward . . .

"Did he . . . did he know I'd been segregated?" McCormick clung to one tiny piece of hope until he saw the judge nod, then his face fell. "They don't even have to offer proof of guilt, ya know," he continued softly. "Anything resulting in disciplinary action while in lawful custody can be considered a violation." Mark spoke with the air of someone quoting something vitally important. Then he shook his head in disgust.

"So the only thing that keeps me out of the box—and out of Quentin—is letting those guys just beat the hell out of me." He paused briefly, and then added, "If I'd been thinking, that's exactly what I would've done."

"No," Hardcastle said firmly. "I won't have you sacrificing yourself like that." He regretted that choice of words immediately, but he continued in the same strong tone. "Your job, your _only_ job, is to take care of yourself in here. You let me worry about everything else." McCormick was back to staring at his shackled hands, and he examined the young man closely. He could see his friend willing himself under control, willing the fear from his body. "We knew this might be a problem," he went on gently, "remember? And we have a plan. You don't need to worry."

Mark finally raised his head again, a very small smile playing across his face. "Because your plans always work, right?"

Hardcastle grinned at him. "Now yer cookin'."

00000

Hardcastle had intended to grab a short nap before his evening visit to the jail. McCormick might have been fairly blasé about the whole isolation thing, but he had been worried, and hadn't been sleeping well. He had only been stretched out on the bed about twenty minutes when the phone rang. He knew immediately that the message had ruined another night's sleep.

Less than half an hour later, he was back at the Clark County Detention Center, following the directions he'd been given to the medical section. The correctional officer who had phoned had been able to provide only the barest of information. Another physical altercation, a different outcome. No serious damage, but McCormick would be kept overnight in the hospital ward.

He presented his ID for what felt like the tenth time, then followed the orderly through the secured doors and onto the ward. He was led past one row of beds—several of them occupied, but mostly empty—then around a small bend in the corridor, past a staffed attendant's station, to an area clearly designed for fewer patients. There were four beds, but only one of them held an occupant.

Hardcastle glanced quizzically at the empty beds they had passed and back to the lone figure at the end of the hallway.

"It's safer this way," the orderly said, seeing the look. "More controlled access." He motioned back toward the workstation. "Someone is always there."

Hardcastle nodded, relieved, but furious at the need for such measures.

"I'll leave you to speak with your client privately, Mr. Hardcastle," the orderly went on. "Just stop by my station on your way out."

The orderly turned to go back to his own station at the entryway, and Hardcastle closed the few remaining steps to McCormick's bed. The young man was dozing lightly, and the judge took a moment to bring his anger under control as he gazed sadly at the sleeping form. He tried to conjure up the details from the bruised face, the swollen lip, the small gash near the left eye that had apparently been deep enough to warrant a couple of stitches. And who knew what lurked under the hospital gown.

But Hardcastle thought maybe the most telling sign was the severe bruising along the young man's arms. You could almost see the outline of the hands that had been holding him. That's when he decided the anger wasn't going away.

He moved from the foot of the bed around to the side, needing to be closer. He took a steadying breath, then placed his hand gently on McCormick's shoulder.

"Hey, kiddo." He spoke softly, just in case the kid was more deeply asleep than he seemed. He needn't have worried.

McCormick's eyes opened instantly. Not as clear as normal—the dull edge of pain and pain medication hard to hide—but alert.

"Hey, yourself," he muttered. He offered a small, tired smile. "You know, I think I used to be better at this."

Hardcastle forced himself to smile in return. "Well, I don't think it's a skill you really need to retain. And, in your defense, you've probably never had folks with such a single-minded intent to make your life difficult."

"Single-minded," McCormick replied with a snort, then winced with the pain of too deep a breath. "Yeah," he continued in a calmer tone, "that's what they were, all right."

"You wanna talk about it?" Hardcastle offered.

"Not really," Mark answered with a brief shake of his head. "It's over. They're the ones that got hauled off to solitary this time. They were more concerned with getting their message across than being discreet, so I'm off the hook. Well," he amended quickly, "that, and the fact that there were three of them. Hard to do much fighting back."

The judge nodded slowly. He'd already gotten the basic details of an unprovoked attack in a common area; should've known McCormick wouldn't have much to add. _Damn kid. Only ever bitches about the stupid stuff._

"They're gonna keep you here overnight," Hardcastle told him.

"Just as well," McCormick answered, the clearest indication yet of his level of pain. "The punching bag needs to rest up." But then he grinned. "Actually, the best part is that you don't have to wait in the chow line."

Hardcastle chuckled. "If you're worried about meal time, I know you're okay, so I'm gonna go get some work done. I'm either gonna get you out of here or get the goons called off, okay? You just hang in there."

"Yeah," McCormick said, still grinning, "time for you to go back to being all worked up about me. I know that's the hard bit, but try not to blow it, okay?"

The judge just winked at him as he walked from the ward. _It's easier than you know._

**Chapter 6**

The judge sat alone in the twenty-four hour café, watching the entryway closely. He was having an early dinner tonight, hoping Winston wouldn't waste any time in making whatever offer there was to be made. The man had not made contact yesterday, and the jurist assumed that was a well-timed absence intended to allow a chance for the severity of McCormick's situation to sink in completely. It was just as well, really, for Hardcastle was pretty sure he would've taken Winston's offer yesterday and started the ball rolling, despite Sloane's instructions to the contrary. And now that delay had only given Scapelli time to up the ante a bit more, and Mark was the one paying to play this game, though the kid was taking it all in stride. _He's handling it better than I am,_ he thought, amazed, _and I'm not the one locked up in a hospital._

Hardcastle was shoving vegetables around the plate more forcefully than necessary when Winston finally made his appearance.

"Judge Hardcastle," Winston said pleasantly. "Would you mind if I join you?"

Hardcastle pushed his plate aside as he waved the man toward the opposite chair. "I thought you might show up, Winston." He glared across at the blandly smiling face. "Just what the hell does Scapelli think he's doing?" he demanded harshly.

The only change in Winston's peaceful expression was a slightly quizzical lift to one eyebrow. "As I believe I have said many times, my employer is simply offering to assist you and your young friend with a legal situation. Mr. Scapelli has many resources at his disposal, and he would be very pleased to make them available to you."

Hardcastle studied Winston carefully, trying hard to give the impression of a man preparing to make the biggest decision of his life, though he suddenly wondered briefly just how difficult the decision would be if this situation were real. _Hah!_ _That's the kind of thing you keep to yourself,_ he thought ruefully. Finally, he spoke slowly.

"And if I were interested in taking advantage of these resources, exactly what kind of help can you provide? And what kind of fee would we be talking about?"

Winston's smile became slightly more calculating. "The first thing we could offer is freedom while awaiting trial."

"Bail has already been denied," the judge responded.

"But circumstances are different now, are they not?"

"You know damn good and well they're different," the older man snapped, "since you're the ones who- -" He brought himself under control. "I've already spoken with the DA again. They wouldn't reconsider, but they did say they'd be happy to help me arrange protective custody." Hardcastle didn't have to force the bitterness into his tone. If this hadn't been a set-up, he would've been furious. He shook his head. "Without their agreement, I'm never going to get a judge to reconsider the ruling."

Winston looked across the table sympathetically, ignoring the brief outburst. "Sometimes the regular channels can be very unyielding."

"And you have other channels?" When Winston nodded briefly, the judge continued.

"You still haven't discussed the fees. Legal services don't usually come cheap, even when they stick to 'regular channels'."

"My employer often finds a form of barter system to be more advantageous than a typical exchange of currency for service."

"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?" He paused, then said, almost sadly, "I don't know what I would have to trade."

"Ah, Judge Hardcastle, you underestimate yourself. You have an intangible but invaluable product to offer. You have connections; you have influence."

Hardcastle allowed an expression of surprise to cross his face. "What? I couldn't . . ." He hesitated, then finally said, "Besides, I told you; I'm retired."

Winston was still smiling. "And yet you are still involved; still connected." He pushed a small, folded piece of paper across the table. "In Los Angeles, one of our associates is having some difficulties of his own. Nothing of significance, merely inconvenient. Like Mr. McCormick, he was deemed a flight risk, and must await his day in court behind bars. However, the courts in LA are currently highly overloaded, and he will be waiting quite a while. My employer would prefer that he be free to offer some amount of productive time to the organization prior to his trial. Our proposal is simply a like for like exchange of services."

The judge snorted. "Yeah, except _my_ guy is actually likely to show up for his trial if he's granted bail."

"As is our associate," Winston assured him, all smarmy confidence. "But that is not really your concern. If we are in agreement, I shall notify our associate's attorney that he may file his motion tomorrow." He looked the question across the table.

Hardcastle made one last pretense of consideration, of wanting to refuse, then sighed heavily. "And I can file my motion tomorrow, too, right?"

The smile had an almost predatory quality now. "We will make the necessary arrangements." Winston rose from the table. "My employer will be most pleased," he said, then turned away.

00000

Hardcastle was enclosed again in one of the small phone booths located just off the casino floor.

"Timmy Evanston," he said into the receiver. "Did you run him?"

"Yeah," Frank Harper's voice replied. "He's pretty small time. We're holding him on a drug charge, intent to distribute. But, honestly, his stash barely met the minimum requirement to levy the charge. He's only got one prior, a smash and grab at a local market. Reads like some kind of childhood prank, really, except he was eighteen at the time. He's on probation for that; seems that was the original problem with bail. Even so, I think his attorney must be sleeping on the job, or something. I'm sorta surprised we're wasting taxpayer dollars on this one."

"Well at least they're not asking me to spring some crazed killer, or something," Hardcastle answered.

"Of course not," the detective said. "They wouldn't risk your morals getting in the way. You know how these things work: the favors are always easy until you've done so many you can't say no."

The judge was pinching at the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. "Yeah," he said wearily, "that's always the way it starts. All right, I'm gonna call Mattie. She won't ask too many questions, especially if I tell her it's to help McCormick. She's always had a soft spot for the kid. I'll let her know she can talk to you if she has to."

"Okay," Harper said. "You know where to find me if you need anything."

Hardcastle disconnected the line, then began to dial the next phone number.

00000

Hardcastle couldn't help but grin as he watched McCormick emerge from the locked hallway, sauntering casually toward the admin desk, his goofy Panama hat perched on his head. The kid looked practically jaunty. The morning of the arrest, the young man had plopped the hat onto his head almost as an afterthought. "_It's what all the best-dressed felons are wearing, and I want to look good for my booking,_" he'd grinned, and Hardcastle had recognized it as the kid's final attempt at making him feel better about the whole situation. He hadn't anticipated how that little piece of normal would reassure him now.

"Hey, kiddo," Hardcastle greeted as McCormick stepped into earshot. "How ya feeling?"

"I'm okay, Judge," Mark answered sincerely, signing for his possessions. He glanced at his wallet before sliding it into his pocket, slipped his watch onto his wrist, then clasped his St. Jude medallion around his neck. He looked back at Hardcastle. "Really."

The judge reached out and pushed the hat back slightly, easing the shadows and revealing more of McCormick's face. The bruising had set in in earnest. "You look like someone beat the hell out of you."

McCormick laughed and pushed the hat back in place. "You always say the sweetest things." He nudged Hardcastle toward the exit. "Come on, Hardcase, I'm fine. Just get me out of here."

"So tell me what's going on," McCormick prompted as they continued down the hallway.

"I finally met Judge Matheson today," Hardcastle answered. "He's the one who sprung you." He held the door for McCormick to step outside, then watched the young man discreetly breathe in the fresh air. An almost invisible layer of tension seemed to slip away from his friend, and he smiled to himself. The kid wasn't fooling anyone with that business as usual routine.

"He's speedy," McCormick commented as Hardcastle steered him toward the proper parking lot. "I didn't expect it to happen so fast."

"Me, either. I wasn't even sure it would be today, much less this early." Hardcastle glanced at his watch. "I've probably even got time to get you back to the strip in time for a buffet breakfast."

"How'd you know that's what I was thinking?" McCormick laughed.

"That's what you're always thinking." They had reached the Coyote. "I'll drive," Hardcastle went on, "you're still looking a little stiff."

Mark just shrugged. "Okay." But he paused before climbing into the car. "Hey. What did you have to do? To get me out, I mean?"

"Nothin' much," the judge replied casually. "Kid back home needed some help arranging bail. I made a call."

McCormick considered that a moment, then nodded slowly. "Well I appreciate it."

Hardcastle waved it off. "Nah; there wasn't much more reason for him to be locked up than there was you."

"Not much more, huh?" McCormick laughed.

Grinning, Hardcastle gestured to the car. "Just get in, hotshot. I'll take you to the Stardust. They've got these little white doughnuts you're just gonna love."

00000

"So what're we gonna do next?" McCormick asked thickly.

"Well, first, we probably oughta teach you some table manners," Hardcastle growled, though the grin killed any menace in the tone. "Talking with your mouth full, and you've got powdered sugar on your face."

McCormick swallowed, took a long drink of milk, and pulled a napkin across his face before answering. "You're the one who brought me here to eat doughnuts."

"I didn't say you needed to inhale about a dozen of them," Hardcastle objected.

"It wasn't a dozen," Mark grinned. "Besides, I've been eating boring jail food for the last five days. This was great." He took another, smaller, bite of doughnut before going on. "But seriously, what's next?"

"Now we wait," the judge answered, shrugging slightly. "Winston should show up in the next few days to work out the deal for your trial, and I'll insist on an actual meeting with Scapelli then. Not much we can do before that. They have to make the move."

"Okay. So if we're just waiting for someone to step into your trap, does this mean we can spend the next few days actually having the vacation you promised? Gamble a little; maybe see a show?"

"Maybe tomorrow," Hardcastle said with a slight grin. "Today, we're just gonna take it easy. We're gonna rest, keep you well-fed, maybe sit by the pool a while. That's it. You look like hell, and we're gonna take advantage of the fact that we don't have to do anything just yet." He was more relieved than he ever intended to admit to have McCormick back on the outside, and in one piece.

"Not that I would complain about a day of nothing but lazing around and eating, but, Judge, you need to quit worrying. You don't need to treat me like some kind of invalid, or something. I'm fine."

"I know you are. But I also know you haven't had a decent night's sleep this week, and being doped up on pain pills last night doesn't count." He saw McCormick's surprise, and went on. "You can't keep things from me, McCormick; I know you, remember? I appreciate you not doing a lot of bitching about being locked up, but I know it was hard on you. And that's not even considering the fighting. It's not gonna kill you just to rest today. Besides, even if you're fine, I'm beat. You're not the only one who wasn't sleeping, ya know."

That stopped McCormick's objections cold. Even if it was intended as a form of mild manipulation, it was still just about the most honest expression of concern Hardcastle was likely to utter. He still wasn't altogether sure why the old donkey had been so worked up about this particular case, but he didn't intend to make it worse.

"Okay, a day of leisure it is. I'll even take a nap, if it'll make you feel better. But tomorrow I wanna see a show or something."

"Whatever," Hardcastle answered with a grin, "but I get to pick the show. I know you, McCormick, and I'd like to see something a little more substantial than just a bunch of naked girls all over the stage."

McCormick just grinned, and munched happily on his doughnut.

00000

True to his word, Hardcastle returned them directly to their own hotel after breakfast, where they spent the day doing nothing, and worrying about nothing, and they both rather enjoyed the break.

But by the next day, McCormick was ready for his vacation. Immediately after a leisurely breakfast, he pointed the jurist to the casino floor, where they spent an hour at the blackjack table. By that time, Hardcastle had lost all the money he wanted to lose, and was annoyed that McCormick was up by about seventy-five dollars.

Then, it was a similar outcome after a few hours at the low-stakes poker table. Hardcastle thought he would be much more upset about the whole thing if it weren't for that irrepressible grin on McCormick's face. The kid was just having so much damned _fun_; who could argue with that?

Finally, McCormick decided it was probably time for lunch.

"You wanna eat here in the hotel, or what?" Hardcastle asked as they walked away from the poker area, McCormick shuffling his stack of chips.

The young man shook his head. "Nope. There's someplace downtown with giant hot dogs for ninety-nine cents."

"You're kidding. That's what you want?"

"Yep. We're just a couple of tourists on vacation today, Judge, and no self-respecting tourist would pass up a meal for two for less than five dollars." He grinned, and held up his chips. "I'll even buy."

"Generous of you," Hardcastle growled, "considering a fair portion of that stack used to belong to me."

"I've been trying to teach you for years," McCormick replied, "but apparently donkey ears aren't so good for listening." He gestured the older man across the floor. "C'mon. Let's go cash this in; then we'll go."

Shaking his head, Hardcastle followed along and tried to hide his grin.

00000

After lunch of the biggest franks either of them had ever seen, McCormick suggested that maybe a change of scenery would be good for Hardcastle's luck, and they spent the afternoon wandering the downtown casinos. They tried their hand at more poker, then craps, roulette, and slots, but Hardcastle's losing streak held while McCormick continued to at least break even at every game they tried. They even dropped in at a keno lounge—which McCormick promptly labeled 'geezerville'—to try their luck. There, Hardcastle actually managed enough of a win to cover the cost of his ticket, but after one game, he declared he'd had more fun watching paint dry, and they continued their trek through the casinos, the judge grumbling incessantly about rigged games and the inequity of life.

McCormick just laughed. "They're not rigged, Hardcase, and maybe after you spend a couple of years taking cold showers and eating lumpy mashed potatoes for driving your own car we can talk about life's injustices. In the meantime, let's just chalk it up to clean living."

"Hah!" Hardcastle answered. "The day you can start relying on clean living to line your pockets is the day pigs will fly."

"Or donkeys will pound a gavel?" McCormick suggested innocently.

"I'm gonna pound something, all right," the judge answered ominously, and reached out to quickly thwack his young friend on the arm, though he was careful to pull his punch, mindful of the bruising.

Mark just continued to laugh as he led the way to the latest casino cage to cash in his newest pile of chips.

By the time they stepped out of the casino, darkness had fallen and the neon was aglow. McCormick's face beamed as he looked up and down the street and took time to wave back at the giant cowboy towering over everything. He saw Hardcastle watching him, smiling.

"You know," he said, "when I was a kid, we only had this little, black and white TV. Sometimes they would show stuff about Vegas, and, of course, they'd always talk about all the lights and how wonderful everything looked at night.

"Well, I could see stuff was lit, of course, but it's not the same without the color, even though it still looked pretty twinkly, which I thought was cool. My mom and I used to watch it and make up colors. You know, like, 'that awning's red and those lights are a golden yellow', or, 'that sign's lit up in green and blue', like that. It was like some kind of fantasyland for us. And my mom would always say, 'One of these days, I'm going to go there and wave right back at that big old cowboy.' So, whenever I'm here, I wave back."

The young man ducked his head and blushed slightly. "Kinda silly, I guess," he said softly.

Hardcastle clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Nope, not silly at all." And they stood for a moment, watching the lights, and they both waved at the cowboy.

00000

The next day, the vacation continued. At breakfast, they browsed through magazines and fliers, trying to choose a show. Despite Hardcastle's objections, McCormick kept being drawn to anything that appeared to focus on scantily clad women, and the judge would just motion him to keep looking. For his part, McCormick's only true requirement was that they not see anything with female impersonators. "Too much like Quentin," he muttered in explanation as he turned the page, and Hardcastle just laughed. When they finally found something they could agree on, they went to the desk and made their reservations.

Then they climbed back in the car and made the short drive to Hoover Dam. They looked over the edge from every possible vantage point, then took the tour down inside, where McCormick was fascinated with the mechanics of it all. Hardcastle, on the other hand, was having a much better time just watching his friend. As much as he complained about the young man's immaturity, he often enjoyed seeing the childlike delight. Not that he ever intended to admit that to anyone, especially McCormick himself.

"So, have you seen enough?" he growled. "Think you might be ready to drive back to town anytime soon?"

"Yeah," McCormick laughed, starting back toward the parking lot, "I'm ready." As they reached the Coyote, the young man paused and looked across the top of the car.

"This has been really fun, Judge; thanks."

Hardcastle gazed back at his friend, and the sincere expression on McCormick's face was enough to stop any kind of smart-ass response or instinctive grumble.

"It's been fun for me, too, kid," the judge replied honestly, then he climbed into the car.

00000

They rode silently back toward town, lost in companionable silence, and McCormick thought it might almost be worth a week in jail just to get the judge in such a good mood.

"What's so funny?" Hardcastle asked from the passenger seat.

_So much for my poker face_, he thought ruefully. "Nothin', Judge, I'm just havin' a good time."

They went a few more miles before McCormick said, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"How come you're friends with Patrick Delancie?"

Hardcastle arched his eyebrow quizzically, and McCormick thought that whatever the man had expected to be asked, it wasn't that. But he seemed to be considering the question, which was more than the outright refusal to answer McCormick had halfway expected.

Mark tried to prompt the judge with a gentle jibe. "It's just that I thought I was the only criminal type you socialized with."

Hardcastle grinned. "Well, 'friend' might've been too strong a word."

"Then what's a better word?"

"Friendly acquaintances?" Hardcastle suggested.

"Okay," McCormick agreed lightly. "Then how did you get to be friendly acquaintances?"

"We were in the Army at the same time. Or, I guess more specifically, we got out of the Army at the same time. We met on the ship home, and we talked the whole way. About where we'd been, of course, but mostly what we were going back to.

"I still remember he was trying to figure out how to tell his dad he didn't want to go into the family business. Import/export, that's what he told me.

"Anyway, we had a lot in common, really. Things we liked and all. We laughed the whole way home, and we were sure we were gonna be fast friends; made plans to stay in touch."

McCormick thought it was pretty clear where this story was going to end, but he asked anyway. "What happened?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "We got together a few times. You know, beer, bowling, whatever. I never knew about his 'family business'. But as soon as I was accepted into the academy, he told me the truth. Our friendship wouldn't have been good for either of us."

"But I thought he didn't want to work with his family?"

"He didn't. But that's not always the kind of decision the family lets you make. Later, when I thought I knew enough people to keep him out of trouble, I tried to make him a deal, but he wouldn't turn against his dad.

"Later still, after I was married, we'd run into each other from time to time at charitable events. You know, at those things, you can exchange a civil word with just about anyone without the reporters coming unglued, so we'd talk for a few minutes when we could. And every once in a while, I'd ask him if he was ready to get out." Hardcastle paused for a moment, then continued soberly. "Back in '67, I almost had him convinced, but then his dad was murdered. Patrick took it hard, and then he threw himself into running the business. It was like he had something to prove. I didn't ask him any more after that."

McCormick nodded. "So how'd you talk him into hanging out with you out here, working a case and all?"

Hardcastle grinned. "There wasn't much talking to it. Told him I wasn't gonna get him or any of his favorite cronies in trouble—he's not a big Scapelli fan—and I said I'd buy the drinks. That's it."

McCormick laughed. "So, all in all, the mob boss is less trouble than your typical ex-convict."

"All in all," Hardcastle agreed, still grinning.

And, again, McCormick thought he would put up with a lot just to see the judge this relaxed.

00000

The relaxation lasted right up until they walked into the hotel.

"Vacation's over, kiddo," Hardcastle whispered. He pointed to a man standing—pretty obviously, McCormick thought—in the lobby. "That's Winston."

"Ah, the middleman," McCormick said quietly, as they moved in his direction.

"Mr. Winston," Hardcastle greeted levelly as they reached the man. "Were you waiting for us?"

"I was waiting for _you_," he answered with a pointed look at McCormick.

"Oh, did I mess up your plans?" McCormick asked sweetly. Then he glanced at Hardcastle. "Judge?"

"Go ahead," the judge replied. "I'll be up in a few minutes."

McCormick nodded, and continued through the lobby.

"I can see why you'd want to keep him around," Winston commented as McCormick walked away. "He seems well trained."

"Not so well that you'd want to let him hear you say that. But what did you need?"

"It's time we sit down and discuss the particulars of your friend's defense."

Hardcastle nodded slowly. "That's fine. When and where?"

"Now," Winston said, surprised. "We can go to the lounge." He was already turning when the judge spoke again.

"That won't do."

Winston turned back. "What do you mean?"

"I want to talk to your boss."

Eyebrow arched, Winston said, "You're joking."

"No."

"Judge Hardcastle, I am the one who- -"

"Delivers messages," Hardcastle interrupted firmly. "That's what you do. And, no doubt you are well trained yourself. But for the type of legal services that I'm sure we're discussing, I'd prefer not to deal with a middleman. I want to talk to Scapelli."

"That isn't possible."

"Of course it's possible. The man sat right down at my table just last week. Tell him to do it again. Otherwise, I won't be needing your services."

"We've already provided a service," Winston said angrily. "You and your boy there have been running around like a couple of tourists when he should've been sitting in a cell."

"And that service has been paid for," Hardcastle pointed out. "Like for like, remember? If that's the end of our business, then so be it."

"McCormick will be convicted," Winston warned.

"Well, Mr. Winston, I suppose that's possible. But I'm a pretty good attorney myself, even without your services, so I guess we'll take our chances."

And without waiting for a response, Hardcastle turned and walked purposefully to the elevator.

00000

"Well trained!" McCormick was still fuming as he fastened his belt and then looked in the mirror to make sure his hair was mostly in place. "I'll show him well trained."

"Will you settle down in there?" Hardcastle called from the sleeping area. "I thought you might be amused by that."

"Amused," Mark huffed, walking fully into the room. "Hardly." He grabbed his sport coat and slipped it on, taking one last look in the mirror. "Okay, so now I'm presentable along with being well trained." He turned with a grin when Hardcastle chuckled.

"But are you really sure we shouldn't just hang around and wait for Scapelli?"

"Nope. Dinner and a comedy show, that's what we planned, and that's what we're gonna do. The ball's in their court now."

"Okay." McCormick gestured toward the door. "Then let's give this well trained, well dressed boy a night on the town."

They were still laughing when they stepped outside and passed by Andrew on their way to the parking garage. With a glance behind him, Mark saw the doorman flash a discreet thumbs up, and he just winked and laughed some more.

**Chapter 7**

They had decided to sleep in after their night on the town, but the ringing phone had other ideas.

"Yeah?" Hardcastle muttered into the receiver after the third ring.

"Mr. Scapelli would like to meet with you this morning. A car will pick you up in half an hour." There was no other conversation.

"Who was that?" McCormick asked when Hardcastle returned the phone to the cradle.

"Thought you were sleeping," the judge answered with a look at the pile of covers.

"Not anymore."

"Sorry 'bout that, but I gotta get dressed. A car's coming for me in half an hour."

"What?" McCormick pushed the blanket off his head and bolted upright. "Scapelli?" he asked as Hardcastle padded into the bathroom.

"Yeah."

"Can I go?"

"No."

"Judge, you can't just- -"

"I know I can't," Hardcastle interrupted, leaning his head back around the corner. "I need you to go and get in position to follow me."

"At least you've got a little bit of sense," McCormick muttered as he dragged himself out of bed.

00000

Fifteen minutes later, McCormick stepped outside into the morning sunshine.

"Morning, Mark."

He slowed his step and turned toward the voice. "Don't you ever get any time off?" he grinned at Andrew.

"Pulling a double yesterday," he explained. "Where's Milt this morning? You guys looked pretty happy last night."

"He'll be down in a bit; we've both got some things to take care of today." McCormick was beginning to feel just a little bit guilty for deceiving this kid. "I really do appreciate- -"

"Mark McCormick?"

The new voice startled them both, and they turned to see two large men in blue suits approaching.

"Depends who's asking," McCormick answered, but then he saw the guy closest pull out a pair of handcuffs, and the other discreetly flashed a holstered gun.

"You're under arrest," the first one said as he reached McCormick. He spun him around and pulled his hands behind his back.

"Mind telling me what for?" McCormick asked, not resisting.

"We'll talk about that at the station," the man told him as the bracelets snapped into place.

"Andrew," McCormick said quickly as he was being led away, "tell Milt, okay? Make sure he knows." The doorman's confused assurances were the last thing he heard as he was hustled away from the hotel.

It wasn't until they were almost at the waiting sedan that McCormick recognized there was a problem. "Hey, aren't you guys gonna read me my rights?"

"Shut up." The guy holding his arm sank his fingers in further and pulled him roughly the last couple of feet. The other one was already sliding behind the wheel.

"You're not cops." If McCormick had had any doubt about that statement, the way the car door conveniently opened fully into his abdomen would've changed his mind.

The guy tugged at him unceremoniously and pushed him head first through the open door into the backseat, then slammed the door before getting quickly into the front seat. "Let's go."

By the time McCormick had righted himself and given any thought to trying to open the door, the car was moving and there was a gun resting on the back of the front seat aimed at his chest. With a shake of his head, he leaned back against the seat and stared at the roof of the car.

"I got out of bed for _this_?" he grumbled.

00000

"Milt!"

Hardcastle turned quickly at the sound of his name. He moved toward the doorman who was waving and moving in his direction. He remembered talking to this kid a time or two this past week, but he didn't realize they were on a first name basis.

"Yes?" he inquired politely.

"It's about Mark."

"What about him?" Hardcastle barked, detached courtesy gone.

"He was arrested," Andrew told him

"He was _what_?"

The doorman nodded. "Two guys, police officers, I guess, just came walking up and took him."

"Did they say why?"

"Well, no. Do they have to? I mean, they pulled out their handcuffs and started leading him away. I think Mark might've asked, but they didn't answer. Mark said I should let you know."

Hardcastle nodded. "Yes, thank you. I'm glad you did." He pinched at the bridge of his nose, thinking this had the makings of a very long day.

"I got out of bed for this?"

00000

Not quite five minutes later, a sedan pulled slowly to a stop in front of the spot where Hardcastle waited. He had already decided that the quickest way out of this current situation was simply to throw himself on Scapelli's mercy and let the man do whatever needed doing. He was not going to allow McCormick to be locked up again.

He recognized Winston behind the wheel of the car, and was surprised to find the passenger door locked when he tried to open it.

The window lowered slowly to reveal Winston's malevolent smile. "My employer," he drawled, "does not like people who make demands."

Hardcastle's eyes widened. "What? You did this?"

"Maybe we'll be in touch," Winston said by way of an answer. He didn't wait for a reply before pulling away from the curb, leaving Hardcastle staring silently at the departing car.

00000

Hardcastle was back in the phone booth.

"I'm not playing around this time," he said angrily. "I'm not leaving him in there again, and I don't care what happens."

"Judge," Sloane began, "I understand your concern, but McCormick will be fine."

"They put him in the infirmary last week, and his PO back home is already breathing down my neck. You need to rethink your idea of 'fine'."

"The PO won't have a leg to stand on once this case is over," Sloane countered, "and, if it'll make you feel better, I'll make a call and have him placed in protective custody."

Hardcastle's instinct was to agree immediately, but he hesitated. "He's kinda weird about that sort of thing," he said slowly.

"Why?"

"I'm not sure," Hardcastle admitted. "Maybe because . . ." He trailed off for a moment, but while he was contemplating McCormick's possible motivations, an image flashed into his mind. And Mark McCormick, bruised and battered, lying in a hospital bed, was not a sight he wanted to revisit.

"Make your call," he said with sudden conviction. "I'll deal with him later."

"All right, I'll get on it," Sloane answered. "Wait for my call."

By the time the phone rang again thirty-five minutes later, Hardcastle had come up with a long list of possible problems. He grabbed the receiver at the first sound.

"Yeah?"

"There's a problem."

"I knew that twenty minutes ago," Hardcastle barked. "What is it?"

"The cops don't have him."

"What?"

"He wasn't arrested, Judge," Sloane explained. "Whoever picked him up wasn't operating on any kind of a warrant, and he hasn't been processed into the system.

"I'm sorry, Judge, but I don't know who has him."

Hardcastle gripped the phone, feeling the fear solidify in his gut, now that it was fully identified.

"Of _course_ you know," he finally said in a low tone. "Scapelli."

"Probably," Sloane conceded.

"Yeah, okay. I'm gonna go back to my room and wait for a call," Hardcastle said, thinking there was nothing he wanted to do less.

"But you need to know, Sloane, I'm gonna get him back, no matter what it does to the case."

"I wouldn't expect anything else," Sloane said, and Hardcastle hung up the phone.

00000

McCormick was trying to pay attention to his surroundings, though it hadn't taken him long to discover that you didn't have to go far outside of town before everything started looking like just so much sand. So, his captors were driving him out into the middle of nowhere and apparently didn't care that he saw where. There were a lot of things to dislike about that idea.

"So you guys ever plan on telling me what this is all about?" he asked as they took another turn into the desert.

"I don't want to tell you again," said the guy with the gun, "to shut up."

McCormick sighed silently and just kept studying the guys in the front seat. Tweedledee and Tweedledum—as he had labeled them—hadn't been very talkative, but he clung to the idea that he'd like to be able to pick them out of a mug book later.

_If there is a later._

It wasn't long after that they made one last turn, then pulled off the road and out into the desert sand before pulling to a stop. McCormick thought 'later' might not involve mug books after all.

He swallowed hard as Tweedledee climbed out from behind the wheel, drew his gun, then opened the back door for McCormick. Tweedledum gestured with his own gun from the front, and McCormick scooted across the seat then pushed himself out of the car. He followed the direction of the pointed weapons and walked a few feet away from their vehicle.

"You wanna ask for any favors?" Tweedledum sneered.

"Keep dreaming."

They stood silently for a moment, then McCormick watched warily as Tweedledum approached.

The man grabbed a handful of hair and yanked McCormick's head lower, knocking his temple into the gun barrel. "You've been wanting to know what this is about," he hissed. "Our boss doesn't like people who make demands," he explained as he slammed his fist into McCormick's stomach, then up into his jaw.

As McCormick staggered from the blows, Tweedledum released his hair and gave him a shove to help him to the ground.

"Make sure _your_ boss understands," the man said as he walked away.

McCormick rolled to his side and watched as the others climbed back into the car, then sped away. After a moment, he pulled in a deep breath, pushed himself off the ground, and began the walk back toward town.

00000

Many hours later, with the afternoon sun streaming through the hotel windows, the phone finally rang.

"Hardcastle."

"It's me, Judge."

Hardcastle felt the relief wash over him, though he knew it was far too soon for that. But the kid was alive, even if he did sound worn down. _What's he been through now?_

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I'll tell you all about it later. Right now, can you just come and get me?"

"Can I- -?" That certainly wasn't what Hardcastle had expected to hear. "Well where the hell are you?" He scribbled down the address the kid rattled off.

"Okay, I'm leaving right now."

"Oh, and Judge, bring your handcuff keys, all right?"

Hardcastle didn't ask for details, he just hung up and hurried out the door.

It was almost an hour later when the Coyote pulled to a stop in front of the isolated gas station just west of town. Hardcastle was out of the car and barreling toward the door within seconds, never noticing McCormick in the shadows of the building overhang.

"Hey, Masked Man."

The judge turned to the voice and crossed to where McCormick was sitting on a bench, head leaned against the wall, holding a can of soda, with handcuff bracelets around each wrist, the broken chain dangling from them. He was sweat-stained and haggard, had small traces of blood dried around his right temple—though it looked like most of it might've been wiped away—and there was a new bruise forming on his jaw, but he was a beautiful sight for Hardcastle.

The judge grinned. "It's good to see you, kiddo."

"Scared ya, huh?" McCormick returned the grin.

Hardcastle surprised them both by saying, "A little bit, yeah." He gestured around them. "What're you doing way out here, anyway?"

McCormick shrugged and pushed himself off the bench. "My ride dropped me out in the desert; this is the first place I came to. The guy inside cut the cuffs for me. Oh, by the way, you gotta go show him your badge and prove that I'm legit. He thinks I might be some kinda renegade convict, or something."

The judge turned toward the building with a smirk. "Knows ya, does he?"

"Very funny, Hardcase."

They ducked inside the station, Hardcastle showed the guy his badge, and they thanked him for his help, then they moved toward the car.

"So what the hell happened?"

"I'll tell you about it on the drive. I just really want to get back to the room and have a shower. And maybe something to eat," McCormick added. "You roused me outta bed this morning without any breakfast."

Hardcastle chuckled as they reached the Coyote. "Is that all you ever think about?"

"You mean besides how frequently Tonto ends up on the wrong end of a gun? I walked for three and a half hours, handcuffed, through the desert, Judge. I'm tired, hot, thirsty, and _hungry_. Okay?"

"Okay," Hardcastle huffed. "And you oughta add cranky to that list, too."

McCormick managed a small grin. "Sorry. You want me to drive?"

"No," the judge said, gesturing toward the passenger side, "I want you to take it easy. And talk."

Hardcastle pointed the Coyote back toward the hotel. "Starting with how you managed to get snagged by two phony cops. Did they have badges?"

"Badges? Judge, they had guns and handcuffs; that's enough for me."

"You didn't ask for ID? It's a legitimate request."

"Do you know how quickly legitimate requests turn into resisting arrest for someone like me? Besides, why is this my fault? I'm the _victim_ here, ya know."

That made sense.

"Yeah, I know," Hardcastle sighed. "All right, so tell me what happened."

"You know the main part. Two guys grabbed me; I really did think they were cops, at least for a minute. By the time I figured it out, it was too late to do anything about it.

"Anyway, they drove me out of town, dumped me in the desert, and gave me a message for you. Then they took off."

Hardcastle looked the question at his passenger.

"They said their boss doesn't like people who make demands."

The judge grimaced. "Sounds familiar. Winston told me the same thing this morning when he left me standing on the curb looking like a fool." He glanced again at his young friend.

"Sorry you had to be the message boy, kiddo."

McCormick waved it off. "Well, it's not _your_ fault. But I do think we're gonna have to change our approach."

Hardcastle smiled slightly at the kid's willingness. "Looks like it," he admitted.

"All right, then." McCormick leaned his head back against the seat. "Just give me a few minutes; I'll come up with something."

"_You'll_ come up with something? Since when are you the mastermind?"

McCormick didn't even look over at the judge. "Since your _plan_ pissed off the mobsters. Now we need a _scheme_." He grinned. "That's where I come in."

Hardcastle laughed, not bothering to argue the point.

And by the time they pulled back into Caesar's Palace, they knew what their scheme would be.

00000

It was late afternoon when McCormick climbed the steps into the county courthouse. This time, he didn't stop for directions, but moved confidently through the lobby to the elevators. When he reached the right office, he knocked once then stepped inside.

A young man—maybe twenty-five—looked up from the books spread across the desk. "May I help you?"

"I'm here to see Judge Matheson," McCormick said, closing the door behind him.

"The judge doesn't have any appointments today, but I'd be happy to give him a message for you, or schedule another time."

"I need to see him today."

"Sir, the judge is in court for the rest of the afternoon. Who shall I tell him stopped by?"

"Name's Mark McCormick," he replied, plopping into the one chair in the small waiting room, "but I can tell him that myself. I'll wait."

The young man's eyebrows rose. "McCormick? Isn't your case on the judge's docket next week?"

"That's what I want to talk to him about." He glanced over at the nameplate on the desk—Bradley Holloway.

"So, Brad, how long you been working for the judge?"

Bradley didn't answer, so McCormick went on. "I work for a judge, too, ya know. Though my chores probably involve more hedge trimming than yours."

"You really shouldn't be here."

McCormick smiled slightly. "Don't worry; I'll make sure he knows it's not your fault." He reached over, picked up a magazine, and ignored the nervous glances coming from the desk.

Finally, when McCormick thought he might go out of his mind, the door opened.

"Judge Matheson- -"

They were both on their feet and spoke in unison, but Bradley got his attention. "This is Mark McCormick," the assistant continued, and Mark saw the same glimmer of recognition in his eyes as Bradley had shown earlier.

"Mr. McCormick, you shouldn't be here without counsel, not to mention opposing counsel."

"Yeah, but my counsel is the problem, so consider this my plea for self-representation. And, trust me, when you hear the reason why, you won't want the District Attorney around."

The judge examined his visitor for a long moment, obviously debating with himself, but he finally jerked his head toward his inner office.

"I'll give you five minutes."

"I'll take it," McCormick answered, and followed Matheson through the door.

"So what leads you to suddenly believe, Mr. McCormick, that Judge Hardcastle no longer represents your best interests in these proceedings?"

"Anthony Scapelli."

McCormick let the words hang in the silence.

It took several seconds, but finally Matheson stammered, "I'm not . . . not sure what you mean."

"Oh, I think you probably are, Judge, but let me spell it out for you. Scapelli is blowing you in."

The judge's mouth dropped open just slightly, but he recovered quickly. "I think you're confused about some things, Mr. McCormick."

McCormick dropped into a chair uninvited. "I don't think so."

He watched Matheson stare a moment longer, trying to conquer the fear in his eyes, though he wasn't altogether successful.

The judge propped himself against the desk. "Why don't you tell me what you think you know."

"Fair enough. Mostly, it's just a really bad run of luck; the curse of Vegas, eh? See, the feds have been investigating Hardcastle for a little while. The tip they were operating off of was completely bogus, and they had just about figured that out by the time this murder rap got laid on me. When the judge started hanging out with Scapelli's right hand man, they thought they might've given up too soon.

"See, the thing is, me and the judge, we've had an okay thing going for a while, and he knows I'd never kill anyone. So, he figured maybe he could do just a little bit of business with Scapelli. You know, nothing major, just a little exchange of favors, to help keep me out of the can.

"Problem is, you apparently can't do a _little_ bit of business with Scapelli. Before Hardcastle could find a way out, the feds moved in.

"Well, Hardcastle was on a bench for thirty years, so there's no way he's planning on going to prison. Somehow, he and Scapelli worked a deal with the feds, and you're the special prize."

"You have quite an imagination," Matheson said nervously. "But even if all of this was anywhere close to the truth, why would you be telling me this?"

"Because," McCormick said reasonably, "when they work out all the details, and storm in here in a day or two and drag you away, I'm gonna get assigned to another judge, and then I'm gonna go away for a long, long time. I'd really rather that didn't happen."

"I thought you were innocent?" Matheson questioned.

McCormick shrugged. "Yeah. But I've been around the block a time or two, Judge, and I know the case they've got. It's solid. If there had been any way out, Hardcastle wouldn't have even considered Scapelli."

"And what about Hardcastle? I thought you said you had a good thing going? If what you're saying is true, that means he's not just selling me out, but you, too."

McCormick allowed a bitter edge into his voice. "Yeah. And that's why I've got a plan. You and me, we're gonna get them before they get us."

Matheson studied his visitor closely, obviously intrigued, but just as obviously still suspicious. "How do I know any of this is true?"

"Oh, please," McCormick said, rolling his eyes. "How would I even know to come see you if this wasn't true? You think I just accidentally stumbled onto information about you and Scapelli? I know what's been going on, and I know what's going on now."

When Matheson didn't seem convinced, McCormick went on. "Look, Hardcastle and Winston have been sitting in the coffee shop at Caesar's for hours. They're making plans that are going to ruin us."

"Let's go see," Matheson said suddenly, pushing off his desk.

"What?" McCormick was on his feet, too. "You want to just drive over there and spy on them?"

"Why not?" Matheson asked, moving to the door. "If what you've told me is true, it shouldn't be a problem."

"And what if they're not there anymore?"

"Then we won't have much to talk about."

McCormick followed Matheson out of the office, managing to keep the satisfied smile off his face.

00000

As McCormick and Matheson entered the hotel—McCormick still making the occasional objection that he couldn't be held responsible if the party had broken up already—Agent Matterly spoke quietly into the discreet microphone in his sleeve, then went back to playing his slot machine.

00000

In the coffee shop, Hardcastle was doing his best to look abashed. "Your boss made his point, Mr. Winston," he said slowly. "We'll do this your way, but leave the kid out of it."

"In or out is up to you, Judge Hardcastle."

Hardcastle nodded his understanding. "Yeah, I got it. But if you've rubbed my nose in it enough, do you think we could get down to business?"

Winston grinned maliciously. "If you insist." He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket and passed it across the table.

Hardcastle picked up the paper and opened it slowly. On it was a list of half a dozen names, along with what appeared to be charges, and—presumably—upcoming trial dates.

"I'm supposed to do something with this?"

"These are some friends of ours," Winston explained, "and they could use our help."

"_Our_ help?" Hardcastle raised an eyebrow.

"Yours," Winston conceded. "But we're all on the same team now, right?"

"Right," the judge muttered. "But, I already told you; since I'm not sitting, there's not much I can do."

"And I told you that we disagree. But we'll have a chance to see what you can do."

But before they had a chance to reach an agreement on Hardcastle's abilities, the conversation was interrupted. "Well, isn't this an interesting couple?"

They both looked up, but the new arrival was already sliding into the booth next to Winston.

"Sloane," Hardcastle growled, "what the hell do you want?"

"You know I've developed quite an interest in your associations," the agent replied.

"If this is a private conversation," Winston interjected, "I'd be glad to leave you to it."

"Nonsense," Sloane said. He reached across the table and snagged the paper. "May I?"

"Pending cases back home," Hardcastle said nonchalantly, "nothing that concerns you."

"When it comes to you, Judge, everything concerns me."

00000

Sloane was gesturing at a piece of paper and speaking attentively to the others at the table when McCormick and Matheson strolled discreetly past the entryway of the coffee shop.

"That's the agent that was asking around about Judge Hardcastle before," Matheson hissed as they continued through the casino.

"I know that," McCormick shot back. "I _told_ you that. But we can't let them see us together." He steered the judge back toward the main entrance. "Now do you believe me?"

Matheson pulled up short before stepping outside, then pulled McCormick out of the way of the flow of tourists. "What is going on?"

"I told you, Judge, they're looking out for them; we gotta look out for us."

"And you think you have a plan?"

McCormick almost laughed. "Yeah, something like that," he replied, staying in control. "Here's the deal. If we work together, we can both win. If I go to the feds and tell them I've got someone who can make Scapelli dirty, they'll make my problems go away. You waltz in and give them enough to make Scapelli go away, and they'll cut you a deal."

"A _deal_?" Matheson said. "I'm not doing this for a deal; I'm going to want amnesty."

McCormick shook his head. "Look, Judge, this is a case where we're both gonna have to choose the lesser of the evils. My PO back home is already leaning on me because of all this mess out here, but I'll gladly take my chances with them rather than going away for murder. And as for you, you need to give them what you've got; cop to whatever kind of conspiracy charge they offer, and do your time in some white-collar camp. You got that? Because if you get greedy, those men are going to send us both away for a very, very long time."

Matheson stared at the younger man for a long moment, then spoke. "How about my plan instead?"

McCormick cocked an eyebrow. "You have a plan?"

"Scapelli buys our silence, we get enough money to disappear."

McCormick just shook his head. "Maybe I wasn't clear. He isn't scared of us, Your Honor; he's going to rat you out and I'm going to be collateral damage."

And then Matheson smiled, though the expression was far from pleasant. "I've got tapes."

"You're joking."

"No."

"You _bugged_ Scapelli?"

"I wore a wire from time to time," Matheson said calmly. "Protection from eventualities just such as this, you know."

McCormick's astonished expression quickly turned to delight. "Judge, I like your style." He sobered. "But this is dangerous; you have to know that."

The judge almost shrugged. "I guess I've always known we might part ways eventually. He's not the kind of man you can really put your trust in, after all. These tapes have always been my protection, now they can be my escape. And if he won't pay us off, we'll use your idea and go to the feds."

"Okay," McCormick agreed, "we'll try it your way. You grab a cab home, and I'll put this together, but we gotta move fast, before they have a chance to blow us in." But when Matheson turned away, he reached out and grabbed the judge's arm.

"Don't try to cross me, Judge. Without me, this thing would've blindsided you; you owe me a chance to get out from under. And if you leave me hanging, I will find a way to make Scapelli the least of your worries. Understand?"

Matheson jerked away. "You don't need to threaten me, McCormick. I'm willing to help you get what you need in exchange for your help in my protection, okay?"

"Okay. I'll be in touch."

00000

"He has tapes?" Hardcastle was at least as astounded as McCormick had been.

"That's what _I_ said. But he says he does, and now he wants to put them on the market."

"I thought you were just gonna have him go to the feds."

"I tried, Hardcase, but, honestly, have you ever known anyone more stubborn than a judge who's made up his mind?"

Hardcastle grinned. "Watch it, hotshot, or Matheson isn't the only friendly judge you're gonna lose."

"So you want me to call Scapelli and set this thing up?"

"Hell, no," Hardcastle huffed. "I don't want you anywhere near him; it's bad enough you're gonna have to be the front man in this circus. And don't look at me like that. The guy has already sent goons after you on three different occasions, and he's pretty sure that you're the direct ticket to me. When he gets the idea that he's about to lose the judge already in his pocket, he might want to put more effort into a replacement. I'm not putting you in the middle of that."

"I suppose that makes sense," McCormick said grudgingly. "So you go ahead and call your friends and set it up, then I'll call Matheson. Just don't say anything dumb. You know this isn't really your part of the job."

Laughing, Hardcastle grabbed the phone. "I'll try to live up." He punched in the number, then waited for the answer, and McCormick sat back to watch.

"Winston? It's me. We have a problem. Your legal expert contacted me this evening, looking to renegotiate his fee." He waited for the silence to return, then said, "Look, I don't know your arrangements, and I don't care. All I know is he says he has recordings of lots of conversations, including the one where you discussed my legal situation. He's offering to sell me my tape. I need you guys to fix this." He listened a while longer.

"Yeah, well, I can arrange a get together so you can all sit down and work this out, but I need to make a couple of things clear. First, I need him in his job to provide those services you promised. And second, I won't be a part of anyone getting hurt; not even him, and not even for the kid. Is that clear?" He grinned slightly at the stricken expression on McCormick face.

"Okay," he went on after a moment, "I'll set it up." He scribbled down an address Winston was giving him. "But I'm not gonna be there." His voice hardened. "Uh-huh. I've already been in enough questionable situations in the last couple of weeks. If you really expect me to help you at all going forward, I can't be in this." He waited again, glancing over at McCormick with a questioning eyebrow. The younger man flashed a thumbs up. "I'm gonna send the kid to handle it.

"No," the judge concluded grimly, "he probably won't like it, but he's not the one in charge." He listened to one last comment from Winston, then muttered a farewell and hung up the phone. He looked over at McCormick, sprawled on his bed and quietly applauding.

"Not bad, Kemosabe," the kid grinned. "But you'd let me go up the river to protect a crooked judge? I'm hurt." He thought a moment, then continued, more seriously, "And, not that I don't trust your powers of persuasion, Judge, but shouldn't we call Sloane and put some protection on Matheson?"

"Way ahead of you, kiddo. He picked up a tail when he left here." Hardcastle suddenly cast a critical eye on his young friend. "But listen, why don't you go ahead and call him and then get a couple hours sleep? You really look like your desert stroll is catching up with you. Winston wants to set the meet for eleven tonight, so you've got plenty of time."

McCormick reached over to grab the phone from the table, rolling his eyes in the process. "Why do crooks never want to do business during normal business hours? But I'm okay, really. I'd rather have dinner than a nap."

It was Hardcastle's turn to roll his eyes. "You are a bottomless pit."

"Hey, these little rendezvous' can go bad really quickly, and I'd hate to die on an empty stomach. So you go make your call, I'll make my call, and then I'll meet you downstairs."

The judge was heading for the door. "I'll go make my call," he agreed, "but then I'll come back up here to get you."

"Judge . . ."

"No arguments, kiddo. It's only a few more hours until the bad guys are in jail, but until then, you're with me. Now don't open this door while I'm gone."

And then he was gone, leaving McCormick chuckling ruefully as he dialed the phone.

00000

McCormick was standing alone in the dark alley thinking a lot of things, but high on the list was that he might've been better off with a nap than dinner. He stifled a yawn and tried to look alert without looking nervous.

The downside of this particular operation, however, was that simply getting the parties together would not be sufficient to make an arrest. There would need to be some criminal activity going on, and it was hard not to be nervous knowing that was coming. Of course, as soon as Matheson opened his mouth and offered to sell incriminating evidence, extortion was a done-deal, but he knew the feds would wait longer, hoping Scapelli would incriminate himself, too.

Or, more likely, Winston. No one really believed Scapelli himself would make this meeting. But whichever one it was, the criminal activity they were likely to incriminate themselves with would be some type of assault, which would undoubtedly happen suddenly and painfully. The trick, McCormick thought, was to make sure it was assault and not murder.

"Just remember, Judge, timing is everything." He muttered the cryptic message softly, knowing the hidden microphone would pick it up. Then he grinned, picturing Sloane and Matterly—especially Matterly—trying to figure out exactly what he was talking about, while Hardcastle would be trying to explain that it could be any number of things, but if it was really important, they'd understand.

Then, in his most serious whisper, he added, "Only the shadow knows." A guy had to take his fun where he could find it.

A few second later, he wiped the grin off his face. "Matheson's here."

The judge approached slowly, his eyes darting about nervously. "There wasn't somewhere else we could've met?" he asked as he drew closer.

McCormick shrugged. "I let them pick. It certainly didn't matter to me."

Matheson's eyes took in the single, dimly glowing street lamp at the entrance to the alley, the fence at the back, the scattered litter that proved the place didn't get a lot of attention. "Doesn't this strike you as the perfect place to dump a couple of bodies?"

"I told you your idea was dangerous."

"Did you at least bring some kind of protection?"

McCormick barked out a laugh. "You mean some kind of _weapon_? Hardly. Judge, I'm on parole. And I'm currently on bail. I don't go walking the streets with concealed weapons; it's a bad idea. And, just for the record, in case you ever have need to know this again, it's also a _really_ bad idea when attending meetings with mobsters."

Matheson just shook his head and kept looking up and down the alleyway.

"Did you bring the tapes?" McCormick asked.

"Of course I brought the tapes," Matheson snapped.

McCormick examined him closely. "But not all of them," he decided after a moment.

"I'm not stupid."

McCormick thought maybe that was a matter of opinion, but he kept that idea to himself. Aloud he said, "As long as they give us enough money for me to disappear, I don't care what happens with the rest of the tapes."

Before the judge could respond, a dark sedan pulled a few feet into the alley, then stopped, leaving them pinned in the blinding glare of the headlights.

"I thought you said come on foot," Matheson hissed.

"I said that's what he wanted," McCormick agreed. "I never said that's what he was gonna do." He cast a quick glance over at the other man. "How long have you been working with this guy, anyway? Don't you know the deck is always stacked in his favor?"

"Up to this point, our relationship has been fairly amicable, and fairly evenly balanced."

"You've been fooling yourself, Judge," Mark said flatly, and there was no reply.

They stood another moment, simply waiting, and then Matheson took a single step. McCormick grabbed his wrist.

"Wait."

"I want to get this over with," Matheson complained.

"Do this their way, or it'll be over for good," McCormick answered.

Matheson waited.

Finally, the two rear car doors opened, and a shape emerged from each side. Distinguishing faces behind the light was impossible, but McCormick decided one was the size of Winston, and the other was much larger. He thought maybe it was Tweedledum.

As the shapes emerged from the shadows, he saw that he had been correct about the identities. He also saw that Tweedledum was carrying a rather large semi-automatic weapon that was pointed in their direction. He didn't care for that much. Back-up was close, and he knew the judge would get here quickly, but even Hardcastle couldn't move as fast as a bullet. Winston was carrying a briefcase. The brushed metal of the case glinted in light, and McCormick thought if it carried money, maybe things weren't all bad. Unfortunately, he also thought that might be exactly the kind of case for carrying more semi-automatic weapons and their accessories. He hoped it was money.

"Gentlemen," McCormick greeted finally, thinking someone should say something.

"Mr. McCormick," Winston returned. "How have you been enjoying the Nevada sunshine?"

McCormick gave him a toothy smile. "Breathtaking. You have some lovely desert scenery around here."

"Perhaps Max will have an opportunity to give you another tour."

"You mean Tweedledum over there? Probably not necessary. The concierge at the hotel can get me a whole list of overpaid, under-smart guides to show me around."

McCormick saw the tiny shake of Winston's head, and saw Max force himself to remain still. He liked a hired gun who followed orders well. He smiled again.

"But I don't think we came here to discuss my vacation plans."

"No," Winston agreed. "I actually came here to talk to Judge Matheson."

Matheson had seemed content up to this point to simply observe, and, watching him, standing stock-still in the glare now that Winston's attention had turned his direction, McCormick was hit with the idea that this guy was in way over his head. _He really has been fooling himself. Unbelievable._

"Judge Matheson," Winston went on, "I believe you have something that belongs to us."

That seemed to snap the judge out of whatever trance he was in. "I have something that _could_ belong to you," he corrected, "for the right price."

"And what price would that be?"

That's when McCormick realized he hadn't even named his own price, much less helped Matheson choose one for himself. _That was sloppy._ He thought maybe the desert sun had fried his brain.

"Seven hundred fifty thousand dollars."

McCormick held his breath. That certainly was not the offer he would've coached the judge to make, but he had to admire the guy's gumption.

"Three quarters of a million dollars?" Winston asked with some disbelief. "And what is it, exactly, that you believe you have to offer that is worth that kind of money?"

"Don't play games with me, Mr. Winston. The tapes I possess chronicle meetings between us, including your boss, discussing a wide range of business dealings over a number of years. You may have them, along with my continued silence. I gave you the first option on them because I have valued our relationship, but if the price is too steep for you, I can always take them to other interested buyers."

Winston snorted. "Do not make useless threats, Judge. There are no other interested buyers for this merchandise."

"I could probably come up with several," Matheson countered. "Your boss isn't the most popular man in all circles, and there might be several individuals who would be willing to pay a high price for this type of information.

"However, the only other buyers you really need to worry about right now are your friendly FBI agents. If I take these tapes and my testimony to them, I could write my own ticket. And that's exactly what I intend to do, unless you are prepared to meet my price."

All in all, McCormick thought Matheson wasn't doing too badly. The initial shock seemed to have worn off, and the man seemed to be holding his own, though Mark did think it was more bluff than substance. And, of course, he had said enough for Sloane to secure an extortion indictment, which should be enough to flip the guy to state's evidence. Now it was just a matter of waiting to see what Winston would do.

"I must say that I'm disappointed," Winston replied, and he did actually sound a little sad. "I always thought we had treated you fairly. I never expected you to betray us like this. And Mr. Scapelli is equally disappointed, which is an unfortunate thing for you."

McCormick thought maybe they were getting close to dangerous ground now.

"_I_ betrayed _you_?" Matheson exclaimed. "Scapelli is the one who was going to turn me into the feds."

"He was not! Why would you think _that_?"

And then suddenly both men were staring at McCormick.

"I saw you with that agent," McCormick objected quickly. "And then Hardcastle told me he wasn't going to be able to guarantee an acquittal any more. What else was I supposed to think?"

"So what is this?" Winston demanded, taking a half step toward McCormick.

Mark let his words spill out, wanting to keep them talking while the backup arrived. "I didn't kill anybody! I just needed a way to stay out of prison. I thought you were taking that away from me. But I won't say anything. If it's all been a misunderstanding, can't we just go back to the way it was?"

"It's not quite that simple, McCormick," Winston said, and this time, Max moved forward with him.

McCormick backed up, trying to keep the space between them. He looked over at Matheson. "Judge, you're not gonna let them hurt me? C'mon, you're a _judge_." But Matheson just took a sideways step, making more room for Max.

And then Winston closed the distance quickly and took one full-bodied swing toward McCormick, bringing the metal briefcase smashing into the side of his head.

From his new position on the ground, McCormick tried to focus his eyes, and he thought the blurry image in front of him was Winston turning his back, not bothering to check if his victim was rising—not that there was much chance of that. Forget the money or the guns; McCormick thought the briefcase was loaded with bricks. And through the ringing in his ears, McCormick was pretty sure he heard Winston's dismissive order to Max.

"Shoot him."

He tried to push himself up, really not wanting to just lie there and allow himself to be shot.

"Nobody move!"

McCormick tried to shake his head, trying to clear his senses and understand the last order. _Who was that?_ He was still pressing his palms against the ground, trying to find the strength to force himself into an upright position.

"You! Drop the gun!"

That voice he recognized. He thought maybe there was something about Hardcastle's tone that would cut through any kind of haze. He smiled slightly and quit struggling. He would just lay here a minute and rest while the Lone Ranger and his posse rounded up the bad guys.

Unfortunately, it seemed someone had other ideas. "McCormick?"

There was that tone again.

"Are you all right?"

McCormick drew in a breath and squinted up at Hardcastle, squatted down beside him. "I'm fine, Judge. And in another couple of seconds, there will only be one of you, and then I'll be even better."

But he took Hardcastle's offered hand and allowed himself to be pulled into a sitting position. Behind them, Sloane and his men were taking care of business.

Hardcastle was staring at him, the concern etched into his features. McCormick rubbed a hand across his face, then looked back at the judge.

"Hardcase, what is your problem? I told you, I'm fine. Why have you been such a mother hen lately?"

Hardcastle smiled, and relief replaced the concern. He offered a hand again. "Come on, hotshot. Let's get you out of here."

But McCormick grabbed the forearm and pulled the other direction, keeping the judge in place. "I'm serious, Judge. You've been making me a little crazy. I can't have you this worried while we're working. What's going on?"

For a moment, he thought Hardcastle was going to stonewall him, but then he saw the older man relent.

"When I agreed to work this case," the judge began slowly, "I thought it might get kind of nasty. I really wanted to get Matheson off the bench, and I was prepared to lose a lot to make that happen."

"Yeah," McCormick agreed heavily, "_too_ much."

"No," Hardcastle countered, "not too much. I made sure Sloane understood the limits." He paused, and looked intently into his friend's eyes.

"I was never prepared to lose you."

McCormick sat silently for a couple of long seconds, trying to know what to say to something he would've never expected to hear. But he finally found the answer was pretty simple.

"Never gonna happen, Judge," he promised softly.

He let another few second pass, then flashed a small grin. "But I'm really ready for that sleep now, if you can help me up."

Hardcastle returned the grin. "Might be a while yet, kiddo," he replied as he pulled the kid to his feet. "We've got a few questions to answer, and a doctor will probably want to at least take a quick look at you." The judge held up a warning hand against the objections. "I've lost track of the number of times you've been knocked around this week, McCormick. And the normal signs of problems might be hard to distinguish from your regular goofiness. Let's let a professional take a look."

McCormick just laughed and let Hardcastle lead him out of the alley.

00000

It was late the next afternoon by the time they were checking out of their hotel and getting ready to head back home. Having given all of his statements the night before—and after getting a clean bill of health from the ER—McCormick had slept through most of the day, while Hardcastle stayed in touch with the mop up duty.

"Well, kiddo," the judge said as they walked through the lobby, "it might not have been flawless, but between my planning and your scheming, we managed to make it all work out."

McCormick laughed. "We usually do. So Sloane got everything he needed?"

"Yep. It's been a toss up between who wants to sing the loudest. But I think Matheson will probably end up with the best deal. The feds really want Scapelli out of action permanently."

"Sorry about that," Mark said with a quick glance. "I know you wanted Matheson."

Hardcastle waved a hand in the air. "Nah, it's fine. He'll go away for a few years. But he's off the bench, and that's the most important thing." He shot a look over at the younger man.

"I got a couple of other phone calls, too. One from Dalem; they've given up on the revocation idea."

"Thank God," McCormick breathed. "And the other?"

"Judge Henderson. Just called to say he was glad things worked out. I guess you must've forgotten to tell me about your visit."

"Ah, yeah," McCormick stammered, "it must've slipped my mind."

"Well, I hate to say this, kiddo," he said as he held the door open for McCormick, "but that was a pretty good idea." He saw the kid's sheepish expression, but he stopped walking abruptly, and blurted the next question before Mark had a chance to respond. "What's the Coyote doing here?"

"A friend brought it around for us." McCormick grinned as he turned to face the approaching doorman. "Thanks for everything, Andrew." He slipped his last hundred into the man's pocket. "You've been a lifesaver."

Andrew smiled. "I was glad to help, Mark," he said, offering an enthusiastic handshake. "Really."

Andrew turned to Hardcastle and extended his hand again. "It was good meeting you, too, Milt." He leaned closer to the older man and spoke more softly. "And I'm very glad things worked out for the two of you. You're perfect together."

Seeing Hardcastle's shocked expression, McCormick just laughed, and turned the judge toward the car. "C'mon, Hardcase, time to hit the road." He waved just before sliding in behind the wheel. "Thanks again, Andrew."

McCormick started the engine, ignoring the hard stare coming from the passenger side.

"McCormick . . ."

It was harder to ignore the growl. "What?" he asked innocently.

"_What_?" Hardcastle repeated, exasperated. "Don't 'what?' me. What the hell was that all about back there? I think that guy thinks we're . . . we're . . ." The indignation sputtered out, unable to be put into words.

McCormick was laughing as he pulled away from the hotel. "Don't worry about it, Judge."

"Don't worry about it? McCormick . . ."

The growl was decidedly more threatening this time around, but McCormick kept laughing. "Besides, Judge, you know what they say."

"Don't you _dare_," Hardcastle warned.

McCormick ignored him.

"What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."


End file.
